


But Always Just Break Apart

by JupiterOrchid



Series: Harringrove Soulmate AU [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Camping, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Road Trips, Romantic Soulmates, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve is also a mother hen, Writer!Billy, and Billy probably needs a hug, and a sweetheart, season three didn't happen... sort of, stubborn!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25966927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JupiterOrchid/pseuds/JupiterOrchid
Summary: "Steve always knew he was a bit of a fuck-up butthis, that’s a whole new level, even for him."What do you do when your Soulmate doesn't want you? Steve would say: "there's not much to do other than keep on living".
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Harringrove Soulmate AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890349
Comments: 94
Kudos: 316





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to explain my love for Soulmate AU's. 
> 
> There's just something so satisfying about them, especially when written right. Not sure if this really qualifies but I tried...

The diner is tucked into a brown brick building right in the middle of main street. Robin lives on the second floor, right above it and Steve has the top floor, just because he likes to climb out of his kitchen window onto the small section of grey roof right outside it. Robin doesn’t really care about shit like that, so.

Inside the diner, the floors are tiled white and the vinyl seats are shiny chrome and bright turquoise. Steve has Seeburg extensions installed in each of the booths and one at the counter, the Jukebox loaded with a mix of old and new, _something for everyone_. They keep the windows clean and open. It helps that the building is on a corner, glass wrapping all around the south and east sides, bathing the inside with sunlight if the weather is good. The sign outside reads “At Harrington’s” in direct response to his father’s disappointment; his mother’s outrage. Putting _their_ name on the sign the equivalent of showing his parents’ the middle finger. It doesn’t mean much now but it used to, back when _At Harrington’s_ wasn’t a local _institution_ , just a newly opened corner of hope.

Now Steve comes downstairs in the early, early mornings and opens the window blinds to a sun that hasn’t fully risen yet, a street that is still empty in anticipation of the day ahead. He checks on the prep, gets the condiments and spices ready, starts a new batch of the bread rolls they only started baking in-house this year. James rolls in at six and puts a pot of coffee on. Steve waits until six fifteen to slap some bacon on the grill and crack open four eggs right next to it. At six thirty Robin finally comes down, a pit-stop on her way to her shift at Kings Accounting. She’s wearing a suit the colour of Myrobalan plums and is trying to wrestle her hair into a messy bun as she goes. It’s too short so strands keep falling out, but she’s never been a quitter. There is paint still stuck under her nails, clinging to the side of her index finger where it has escaped the terrors of water and soap.

She slides onto one of the stools next to the counter, vinyl a little scuffed but still shiny, and takes him in, squinting. So far, it’s like any other morning from the past several years of similar mornings. Except today her gaze catches on the short sleeves of Steve's t-shirt and she says: “Glad to see you’re not hiding it anymore,” instead of saying _good morning_ like any other day and Steve fights the urge to roll his eyes because _of course_ she’d notice, _of course_ she’d say something.

 _asked you, Harrington?”_ is peeking out of the sleeve of his t-shirt, dark letters in stark contrast to the pale skin of his inner bicep. Her own _“The eyes are so expressive”,_ he knows, is hidden on her thigh, under her skirt, dull and gray as the day she got it.

It’s not fair that her placement is luckier. It’s not fair that for her, everything is still to come but. He’s learning not to hold these things against the people he loves. He is learning not to drown in his bitterness like in the La Brea tar pits, dark and sticky, and not wanting to let you go. 

“Everything’s in the laundry,” he says, casually, going back into the kitchen to check on the eggs. It’s not a complete lie: the shirt _is_ clean. And it looks good, with the jeans and the cap. It’s a look; he is going for a look here, Robin, thank-you-very-much!

“Aha,” she nods, and, surprisingly, lets it go. Instead, she thanks James when he slides a cup of coffee towards her, puts her elbows on the counter and taps her fingers once, twice. She asks James for a quarter, waits for his smile to spread wide and knowing. Waits as he drops the coin into the Seeburg for her, as he presses the button next to where thick letters indicate **Pictures of You – The Cure** , in the catalog, for her. The music fills in the silence, stretches its limbs out into every corner, every crevice. 

“I’m banning it,” Steve yells from the kitchen before Smith even starts singing. Steve is loading their plates, breaks another couple of eggs on the grill for James who mentioned, in passing, that Missy was fussy this morning which means he probably missed breakfast.

“It makes me happy,” Robin yells back as if Steve hasn’t been threatening the ban almost every day for the past year.

“But does it have to make you happy _every_ morning,” he asks, coming around with two loaded plates. There is a toast with jam on the plate he slides in front of Robin which Steve thinks is gross because Robin immediately digs into the eggs and bites off the toast simultaneously but... that’s how she likes it. Just one more thing to make her happy.

“I’m glad to see it,” Robin says, nodding towards his arm.

Steve shrugs as he chews and doesn’t say anything. What is there to say?

They eat the rest of their breakfast in silence as the staff filter in and the hour creeps closer to seven. James sweeps the floors and wipes the counters even though they were swept and wiped last night. By the time he flips the sign over from “closed” to “open”, Robin is out of the door, the ghost of a kiss cooling on Steve’s cheek.

The day has begun.

Steve hasn’t _had_ to work the kitchen or serve tables for _years_ now, but he likes doing it from time to time. Likes the way it makes him feel, being in the diner, in on the action, interacting with the regulars and meeting strangers. It feels nostalgic, takes him back to that first year out of high school when the diner was named “Good Eats” and consisted of a dusty collection of sad, mismatched tables and a cracked counter. And yeah, maybe he felt lost back then, and aimless, but he also learned to work hard, learned to reach for things that were concrete and could be transformed from ideas to realities. And he likes seeing what he’s built, what him and Nancy and Jonathan turned the place into, so. He works the floor for a couple hours before retiring to his office for the rest of the morning. He really needs to rejig the schedule for the next month and he needs to sort that mess with the yeast and the potato suppliers and, honestly, a million other things that need to be done, done, done.

Steve is going to do them, all those million things, _he swears_ , but for now he sits behind his desk and just shuffles papers pretending to himself that he’s busy. Instead, all he can think of, now that the door has been closed on the chatter of the diner and there’s quiet around him, is what Robin said when she first saw him this morning. He rests his head on his desk, looks sideways at his bicep. He lets his finger catch on the sleeve, slide it up, up, until it reveals the rest of it and then slides his finger from top to bottom, like he’s been doing for years: _“Who the fuck asked you, Harrington?”._ And he wishes, for the thousandth, millionth time, that he could feel raised edges, could fool himself into believing that it’s just an unfortunate tattoo, an old scar. Maybe, if he could just pretend long enough, believed it hard enough… Maybe then this pinched, heavy feeling he has been carrying with him for years would finally lift off his heart.

When he met Nancy, her words hadn’t come, yet. And yeah, he knew almost right away that Nancy could never say anything as vulgar as “fuck” to him, but there was a hopefulness to her bare skin. A vast, pale expanse of anticipation, two moles on the back of her neck, a constellation on her ribs. And he would trace her soft skin, knowing the whole time, that he was fooling himself. Nancy knew it, too, of course. Because she was always smarter than him, sharper.

There _was_ love there, he was sure of it. Felt it when he held her flush against him, when he touched her hair, intertwined their fingers. It was like a sweet pinch to his insides, a warmth in his chest. And it was _real_. Even after her words came in, even after their words coloured. But Nancy had a different destiny and it wasn’t anybody’s fault but his own that his destiny was loneliness, that his destiny was pain.

To her credit, Nancy tried. Held on to him like a child to a precious balloon in a strong autumn wind. And Steve, too, wanted to hold on to that feeling of hopefulness, to keep fooling himself into believing that this _real_ love, was the _right_ love. But he had to let her go, had to allow for it to morph into something different. Because he _did_ love her, because it _was_ real, and when you really love someone, you wish the best for them.

Max and Dustin come in for their shift after three, but Steve doesn’t see them until Nancy knocks on his door.

“Have you had any lunch at all?” she asks in her mom-tone, draws his attention away from some potato crop article someone emailed him and how did he even end up here, anyway?!

Nancy’s hair still crops at her shoulders, waving a little from the long day. She slides her backpack onto the floor and her body into the chair across from him. Steve looks up at the clock over his office door and can’t believe it’s already five.

“What are you doing here?” he asks Nancy as if she doesn’t drop by unannounced _at least_ once a week.

“Just checking up on my asset,” she smirks like that joke didn’t get old three years ago and Steve thinks how she’s still the most beautiful girl he has ever seen, how she might _always_ be the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. He smirks back at her, teases: “are you sure you don’t want those monthly reports I offered to give you, back when we started?”

“God no,” Nancy laughs, “then I’ll have to read them! I much prefer you just telling me.”

Only twenty percent of the diner belongs to Nancy, that was the arrangement she wanted even though Steve was ready to go fifty-fifty. And five percent is Jonathan’s, because Steve insisted (well, Steve said ten, but they strong-armed him because they’re evil and he’s too soft on them). But Nancy bankrolled the bulk of it in the beginning, on a loan basis that has since been paid back.

When they were just a year or so out of high school, her dad had an accident and died so suddenly that it completely knocked the wind out of Nancy’s sails. She was crumbling right before their eyes and Steve and Jonathan didn’t know what to do with her. No one was more surprised than Nancy at how hard she took it.

Then came the insurance pay out. Nancy didn’t want it. And that was the only time Steve saw Jonathan insist on something: _you’re being a fool,_ he said, even though she was crying. _You have a chance,_ he kept saying, _to take this awful thing and make something worthwhile out of it._ She yelled at them, told them both to leave, and slammed the door to her room. Jonathan rubbed his neck, sighed heavy, said to Steve, _maybe I pushed too hard._

But then, the next day she came by his house, her cheeks ruddy as if she ran the whole way and she pushed her way inside and said, all in one breath: _Jonathan was right._

Steve had been talking about the diner almost non-stop for months. Freddie, the owner, was getting ready to retire to Arizona where his daughter just had a second kid, but Steve didn’t think he could get the money together in time. And even if he could, the place needed a makeover if he wanted it to start making a profit because he’s been doing Freddie’s books for the past six months (that’s how bad _that_ guy was at business) and he _knew_ that the diner wasn’t bleeding, but profit has gone down in the past ten years, that’s for sure, so. Nancy’s loan was nothing short of a godsend.

And Steve tried talking her out of it, he really did. Felt obligated to remind her, more than once, that investing in any idea that was thought up exclusively by Steve Harrington always carried with it the inherent risk of becoming a waste. He tried reminding her of college and future children and stability, of how she should be thinking of Jonathan and herself. But she wouldn’t hear it. And then, the three of them were working out a stronger business plan, and buying the building, along with “Good Eats”, and fixing it up like a marvel. And Nancy, well, it helped her heal, too. Gave her something to focus on, put that wind right back into her sails. Nothing could stop her since.

Steve was very hands-on for a server. Something about the place just really struck a chord with him so, by the time they bought the diner, he already knew all of Freddie’s suppliers and employees inside and out. He knew how the place operated and knew what worked and what had to go. Suddenly, to nobody’s surprise but Steve’s, the place started turning a profit.

If Steve was any pettier than he already was, he might’ve sent his financial reports to his father. But he was only petty enough to send one copy to his mom. That was three years ago which frankly, wasn’t their _best_ year, and – he insisted – he only sent it because she kept trying to find out about his financial situation, pretending she actually cared about whether he was starving or not. She would tuck her condescension in between the lines of her non-stop letters which she would always address to Steve but never send to _his_ address, always to the diner, as if her not addressing it, meant the diner didn’t exist. Steve only felt more justified when she stopped writing altogether.

Nancy breaks him out of his reverie, poking at his bicep.

“You stopped hiding it?” she remarks, tone as casual as Robin’s was this morning, which is to say, not at all and fully loaded with meaning.

“Ugh,” Steve cringes, moves his arm away from her thin, grabby fingers. Nancy raises an eyebrow as if to say, that’s not a good enough answer and Steve wants to tell her she never even asked a question but that’s a losing battle that he can never win.

“What is it with you people?” Steve asks, not really expecting an answer and then adds: “keeps the numbers away.”

“Ri-i-ight,” she says, stretching out that ‘i' way longer than is strictly necessary, “because you’re just _drowning_ in it, king Steve.” And Steve cringes again, this time at the nickname but only for a second because even though it hurts, it’s still fine when Nancy says it, it’s still okay if it’s _her_.

“You’d be surprised, little lady,” he says, gets up, seamlessly drops the subject: “can I offer you some lunch?”

“It’s basically dinner time,” she remarks because she’s a smartass, but she lets the subject drop and takes his hand, instead. Steve is grateful.

When they come out, Robin is already sitting at the counter, back from work. Max slides a cup of what looks like camomile tea towards her, which probably means it hasn’t been the best of days. Robin’s blazer is slung over her knees, her bun even messier, whole strands of her hair hanging sadly around her face: just more indications, really. 

Nancy greets her with a smile and a hug, slides onto the stool next to her while Steve goes to say hi to Max and Dustin, asks the cook to whip them up some burgers in his down time between the lunch rush and the dinner rush.

“Hey stranger,” he says to Robin, tone a ray of sunshine, because he’s an idiot, “how’s it going?” She narrows her eyes at him as if to say _really, Steve?_ and then calls out to Max who’s fiddling with the cappuccino machine, says “Hey red,” eyes never leaving Steve’s, not missing a beat, “is your brother back in town? I think I saw him at the gas station on my way back.”

And Steve feels his heart drop, thinks he can hear it clatter on the diner floor only to turn around and see that Max has dropped the pitcher she was holding, hears her swearing when the steam catches her hand. Milk splatters everywhere, leaks in a puddle on the white tiles. Steve jumps into action, hears Max’s apologies over the rush in his ears, hears her say “yeah, he’s been back for a couple days now” as if he’s underwater.

Steve says something about a mop and rushes to the supply closet in the back, feeling like a coward the whole time. Because it’s been years, because Steve is _o-o-old,_ because Billy’s been back before, many times, so whatever, it’s fine, who cares. The answer is: _Steve cares,_ can’t fucking stop himself from caring and it hurts, even if the pain has dulled, even if he learned to brace himself against it.

From around the corner Steve hears Nancy say: “was that necessary?” and she sounds like she always sounds when Robin does something stupid or insensitive: fond and disappointed all at once. Steve hears a thud like a blond head hitting the counter, a groan, Robin’s voice high and reedy, “fuck, I didn’t mean it” and Steve could call bullshit except Robin does that sometimes, when she feels the stress mounting on her like Earth on Atlas, when her hackles are rising because someone’s poking at a bruise, when hard days like these make her real dreams and goals seem so far away, so unattainable. Steve knows all of this.

He comes back out.

“Steve,” she says from her place on the counter, quiet, sad, pale hand reaching towards him, “I’m sorry.” And that’s also very Robin-like, this immediate regret, immediate apology. Steve takes her hand and squeezes, slides a quarter into the Seeburg and presses the button next to where thick letters indicate **Pictures of You – The Cure** in the catalog.

Robin smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick(?) note on the setting: It's kind of a mishmash of things. Don't think too hard about it and just go with the flow, is my suggestion?
> 
> Season three only happened in the sense that Robin and Steve are besties. Season two mostly happened; Billy and Max come to Hawkins, monsters, etc, etc, but Billy and Steve don't fight. Season one happened as it happened, there will be some very veiled references to the horrors of Hawkins in this but they're in the past, so let's just say the gang all worked through their upside-down-related traumas. 
> 
> Hawkins is a college town (cuz I wanted to keep Dusty and Max close, cuties <3). The era is a mix of 80's and modern times, skewing more toward modern times. 
> 
> To be honest, I didn't really want to think too hard about it (even though, I promise, I really, really did) or address it in the fic. I just wanted the writing to focus on the story. If you have any questions about setting or Soulmate mechanics in this universe and are burning with the indignant fire of a curious nitpicker, I promise I probably have an answer. I just didn't want to bog it down with all the unnecessary details. 
> 
> Anywaaaaay, thanks for reading! Stay tuned!


	2. Two

The diner is open seven days a week but, Robin reasons, that doesn’t mean Steve has to _be there_ seven days a week. Steve disagrees but is also trying to simultaneously skirt another conversation, about how he might be a control freak because, like, no, he’s not. Things just happen sometimes, and he needs to be on site to handle them.

Robin says, “you _are_ on site,” and means _James can always come get you._ Except Steve’s definition of _things happening,_ is very different from James’s definition so, no, he won’t.

Still, when Friday rolls around, Robin wrestles him upstairs after her shift, unceremoniously pushes him through her door. Steve walks around her sparsely furnished living room for a minute, trying to spot the paintings that are new or that maybe had an update. Robin paints the way some people clean or sleep: in fits and starts, never from beginning to end, like you’d expect. Robin says, it’s because the paint dries so long but Steve knows that it’s the way her mind works, jumping from idea to idea, never standing still, making her brush jump from canvas to canvas.

Some of the canvasses, very few, in fact, are empty, and some are base-coat white, but most are marked in some way: bright violets and base ochers, dark indigos under light pinks. Some of the paintings look like they’re finished but Steve knows they aren’t because he knows where she keeps the finished stuff and it’s definitely not here, out in the open, in the living room.

She comes back out, changed into sweats and a t-shirt. Her hair is down, and she looks more like herself. She looks like she’s feeling more like herself, too.

They sit in her bathtub and pass a joint back and forth, the music from Robin’s portable speaker a low echo, bouncing off the walls. Steve is glad they don’t have neighbours.

He starts to feel his bones melding into his muscles, skin melting into the bathtub and knows it’s working. His mind swims, he laughs. Robin says: “man, I missed this” and they used to smoke more often, before, but that’s what happens when you grow up: you don’t have time to fool around, you want your days to have more purpose.

“This has purpose,” Robin argues and Steve nods, feeling like the movement of his head, up, down, takes an eternity.

“Feels good,” Steve tells her because he thinks he forgets every time, and every time he has to acknowledge it. His permanent aches dull, he feels like he’s floating down a river, free.

“Yeah,” Robin nods and then after a silence that feels like hours says, “will you go see him?”

And if Steve wasn’t stoned, he would’ve gone home or, at the very least, shut her down or not engaged, but instead, he says: “no” and nothing much else.

“It’s been years,” Robin says as if he hasn’t been counting the months, weeks, days. “Maybe it’s time to try.”

“I can’t,” Steve chokes out and he doesn’t know how to explain to her what it is he’s feeling every time he wakes up in the morning and has to remember that he was never wanted by the one person that was supposed to want him, no matter what.

He sees Billy on the first day of his last year of high school because he’s obnoxious and loud and hard to miss but they only have one class together, maybe, and Steve doesn’t feel like they’ll be friends, so they never talk, never actually exchange words.

And then the kids ask him to drive them to the arcade after school one day and, yeah, he feels a little like their adoptive soccer mom when he tries to arrange their bikes in his trunk. But, honestly, he doesn’t really mind. Lucas brings Max around and it’s not the first time he’s met her. But she still seems a little shy around him and Steve thinks it’s hella cute, so what the hell, the more the merrier. 

And, then, it kind of happens all at once, so fast, it takes Steve weeks to parse everything out afterwards. It goes a little like this: Billy stalks towards them, sneers “Maxine” like he means _what the hell are you doing?_ And Max says, “we’re going to the arcade” and pushes her hair back, off her shoulder, a little defiant and Steve doesn’t really think. He just steps a little forward and smiles, and says: “Don’t worry, man, I’ll drive them.”

And Billy says, “Who the fuck asked you, Harrington?” and the first thing Steve thinks is _how does he know my name?_ and then he feels weird all over. He looks down at his bicep and the _Harrington?”_ peeking out of the sleeve of his polo shirt is still grey but. It’s like he _feels_ it. He pulls the sleeve up and there it is, the black spreading like ink, left to right, going slow but determined and Steve is scared and elated all at once.

“Oh shit,” Max says, her eyes as big as saucers, looking back and forth between Steve and Billy and she looks scared. And Steve looks up and Billy looks scared, too, eyes so, so big, red mouth hanging a little open. Steve doesn’t mean to, feels a pull, like gravity, and takes a step forward and Billy says “no,” as if he means _no way in hell, ever,_ as if he means _no matter what, it’s not happening,_ as if he means _not you,_ turns around and leaves.

Silence.

Steve is sure the noise of the parking lot is still swirling around him but it’s as if someone turned the volume dial all the way down, just for him, and then his ears are ringing. He’s looking at the spot where Billy was standing and can’t form a single thought. Because he always knew he was a bit of a fuck-up but _this,_ that’s a whole new level, even for him.

“Can we still go to the arcade?” Dustin asks, quietly, right next to him, hand reaching for Steve’s arm.

And Steve is nothing if not a _good_ adoptive soccer mom, so, yeah, he drives them.

Nancy and Jonathan ring the doorbell, the ring sounding a little tentative, like they’ve never been here and then open the door right away as if they’re coming home.

“In here!” Robin yells at them and he hears Jonathan say something to Nancy, something that sounds suspiciously like _why are they always in the bathtub?_

“I see you’ve started without us,” Nancy nods at Steve instead of answering and Steve chuckles because he’s wondering if she is seeing a puddle where he’s supposed to be, because that’s a little what he feels like.

“This one here,” Robin pokes him in the arm “needed to relax a little.”

“I’m relaxed,” Steve argues, “I’m always relaxed! I am so-o-o-o-o chill,” he stretches that ‘o’ so long he forgets what he’s arguing against.

“Yes, yes, you are,” Jonathan humours him and then takes him under one arm, helps him up, “up, up,” he says, “this bathtub cannot fit four people, we tried.”

And they really, really have. Steve remembers and laughs. Damn, he hasn’t felt this good in a while.

Jonathan walks him to Robin’s couch. Behind him, Robin thinks she’s whispering but he can hear every word. She says, _I want him to go see Billy,_ she says, _don’t you think he should try, it’s been so long._ Steve wants to know what Nancy is thinking but she doesn’t say anything back.

Robin just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get it, because her words are still grey, because, for her, everything is yet to come. She’ll understand, though. After. When her words colour, when she’s sleeping in the arms of a man or a woman who will love her more than breathing, who will mean everything to her. She’ll know then.

Robin and Nancy tell him to take the next day off, but Saturday is the day parents most often bring in their kids and he likes kids, he likes to watch them giggle and get excited over pancakes and waffles, likes to hear them share their thoughts and tell stories about their days. He used to dream about having a big family, before Billy, before everything.

So, he says to Nancy and Robin, _maybe I’ll take a half day,_ mostly to appease them and still goes in before noon. He works the cappuccino machine. He shoots-the-shit with Dustin behind the counter, in the lulls.

Dustin is taking a class on principles of plant and animal physiology because he’s trying to squeeze a second specialization into his biomedical engineering degree and is trying to decide between bioprocessing and sustainable building systems and Steve has no idea why he’s doing this or what any of it means but ok. And Dustin is trying to tell him something about plant cells and Steve only has a rudimentary understanding of biology from what he barely remembers from high school, so, yeah, honestly most of it is going over Steve’s head. But Dustin still tells Steve all this stuff, even though he _knows_ Steve is not keeping up.

Because it’s not really about that. It’s not about Steve giving a solid educated opinion on the possible success or failures of Dustin’s most recent theory. It’s just about showing interest. And Steve will never stop trying for him, never- _ever_.

Dustin says something about zinc storage in deciduous perennial plants and Steve is trying to make a cappuccino and listen at the same time because it’s actually sounding kind of interesting, so he misses it. Misses the moment the bell on the door chimes.

Maybe he also misses it because he’s heard it so much that it’s part of the background at this point. When he’s out here by the counter, the diner still full, the sound just drowns in the general clamour. But then, Dustin stops talking. Almost in the middle of a sentence. Steve slides the cappuccino to the girl on the corner, tells her “$3.50”, takes her change and is almost at the till when he looks up.

Billy’s hair is shorter in the back, doesn’t curls as far down his neck anymore. He is tan, a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. He’s not wearing denim-everything. And that’s all that’s different. He looks almost exactly the same as Steve remembers him and he’s sitting at a booth, across the room, but he’s looking right at Steve.

Steve drops the change, the soft clinking of coins on linoleum getting lost in the general chatter. His eyebrows crease towards one another, his jaw squares. Steve’s body, his face, they’re moving all on their own, as if recognizing that he can’t pilot right now, can’t make anything move.

He turns to Dustin, who’s looking at him, a rare glimpse of fear in his eyes.

Steve’s voice is ice-cold when he says, “take his order” and then he’s gone.

Upstairs, Steve climbs through his kitchen window and lays down on the roof until the stars come out, until Robin comes up.

She squeezes his hand and pretends she doesn’t see him cry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been in the works since the beginning of May so I'm glad to finally be done with it. I'm just doing final 5th and 6th edits on each chapter before posting. 
> 
> Feedback is super appreciated. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Three

Billy comes by the next day, too. He’s sitting at the end of the counter, sipping on a coffee and scribbling something in a notebook when Steve comes out of his office and Steve just turns around and goes right back. He’s not even sure if Billy saw him or not and he definitely, _definitely_ doesn’t care.

The next morning Steve says he needs some time off and delegates his work to James. James tells him that it’s about time, but Robin just squints and eats her eggs, turns The Cure on again like it’s every morning. Steve goes upstairs. He sends emails from his personal computer, makes calls on his cellphone, but doesn’t come down.

The days crawl by. Steve gets some things done. For example, he figures out the issues with the potato supplier and he finally deep-cleans his apartment. He even decides to finally paint the living room and the bedroom like he’s been saying he would for the past three years. Jonathan comes by to help because Steve is not very handy and between the two of them, they’re done in no time.

They sit on Steve’s little grey patch of roof and drink beer.

“You want to talk about it?” Jonathan says like he maybe would rather not. Nancy is better at this sort of thing. Steve knows this, too, appreciates how much effort it takes Jonathan just to ask.

“Nah,” Steve waves and it’s only partially for Jonathan’s sake. The truth is, well, there isn’t much to say.

Back then, Billy wouldn’t speak to him, couldn’t even look at him. Steve tried. Goddammit, did he try! Never tried so hard in his life, he was sure of it. He would wait by Billy’s locker or in the parking lot or by Billy’s class, feeling pathetic. Billy would always sneak away, or worse, make sure he was always surrounded by people, making it impossible for Steve to even approach him.

And then, one time, Steve caught him behind the arcade, all alone, smoking a cigarette, completely by chance. It was like fate and Steve can still remembered that wild, scared-animal look in Billy’s eyes when he saw him. Steve rehearsed the words he was going to say, so many times; phrased and re-phrased them in his mind until they were looping on repeat, appearing in his dreams. But right then and there he couldn’t get any of them out.

Instead, all he could say was, _can I see it?_ and then, a little desperate, a little breathless: _please_ and he didn’t really expect Billy to comply but there he was, lifting up his t-shirt. Steve could see, right there, on one of his ribs _“Don’t worry, man, I’ll drive them.”_ The letters curving in his own handwriting, just as dark as his own if not in such stark contrast against Billy’s skin which looked like it was gilded by the sun. Steve felt a pull like that first time, a gravity, sucking him in. It felt like falling but sort of sideways? He reached for them, let his index finger run, left to right, against every letter, like he did to his own words so often since.

Billy flinched making Steve remember where he was. He jerked his fingers back, looked up, a little worried, a little afraid, but Billy caught his hand, pulled. Their lips met like a thunderclap, an avalanche, a natural disaster of clacking teeth and sticky lips and warm tongues. Steve felt like he was underwater, only breathing, floating weightlessly in a sea of calm.

And then Billy pulled back, not yet all the way, not yet letting go of his hand.

“Ain’t gonna happen,” he grunted, low in his throat, even though, just a moment ago, his hands were saying _come closer,_ his lips were saying _stay here,_ his heart, under Steve’s hand beat a rhythm that said _never-ever leave._ He let go of Steve’s hand, stood back.

Steve said, eloquently: “what?” because kissing Billy felt like the best thing in the world even though it was the thing Steve was least likely to do, even a month prior. How could Billy not feel it, too? Was Steve broken?

Maybe Billy was reading his mind or maybe it was just a coincidence when he said, “I don’t want you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Steve threw back at him, arms folded, hiding his hurt behind eyebrows drawn in anger.

“And I’m not planning to get to know you,” Billy sneered back at him, looked him dead in the eyes, didn’t even blink when he said: “the universe made a mistake, because I could never want you.”

Billy hit Steve’s shoulder, hard, as he was passing.

Steve didn’t try anymore after that. And then, a couple months later, right after the last day of high school, Billy was gone.

So, yeah, what else is there to say?

Robin comes by on the fourth day and calls him a coward.

Under his breath, Steve calls her a bitch, but she still catches it and laughs: “whatever. When I said all those times that you need a vacation, this,” she gestures at his… everything, as he’s sitting on the couch in his sweats, eating funyuns, “wasn’t what I meant.”

“Whatever,” Steve throws back at her, “this is a staycation.”

“No-o-o,” Robin stretches the “o”, “this is you hiding.”

“Listen,” Steve is starting to feel real annoyed so he gets up, shakes the funyun crumbs from his shirt, “I’m gonna need you to step back on this one.”

“What are you talking about?” Robin huffs, indignant, “I’m just trying to help you.”

“And I’m telling you I don’t need your help,” Steve shoots back, tries not to raise his voice.

“Right,” and Steve knows Robin always thinks she’s right, knows that, usually, that’s true, but this is different. He squares his shoulders. She says: “cuz you seem to be doing so-o-o well,” and then adds, without missing a beat: “just go _talk_ to him.”

“Get out,” Steve says, quietly, with no anger or malice.

“What?” Robin looks genuinely surprised and maybe, if Steve was in a better mood, he would relish in it, a little.

“I need you to leave,” he says, hopes that rephrasing would get Robin moving.

“What the hell, Steve,” she looks angry now, “I’m just trying to help.”

“I know,” he says, sitting back down, “I know, but… but you’re not.”

Robin doesn’t say anything after that. Just looks at him, a little sad, still a little surprised.

“You just don’t get it,” Steve tells her, puts his head in his hands, lets his fingers trail into his hair, lets them tug a little, “you think you do but you don’t and I don’t owe him anything.”

Robin sits down next to him, puts her arm around his shoulder, says: “I just want you to be happy.”

“I _am_ happy,” Steve looks up as he says it, smiles, a little sad but sincere.

“I mean, really, _really_ happy,” Robin says, “like in all the books and the movies.”

And Steve looks at her for a long, long minute. Takes her in, this girl that doesn’t know how to stay down after life keeps pushing her. She’s his best friend, the one who’s been there for all of it, all his rough and tumble, post-high-school years and reminds himself that she wasn’t there. She was there, but she wasn’t _there,_ not really. When Billy left, Steve only knew Robin’s name and not much else.

“I love you,” he says, “you know that, right?”

“’Course,” Robin says, smiles, like it’s a no-brainer.

“I know you want the best for me,” he tells her, “and I know you’re very often right.”

Robin smirks, pleased, but Steve keeps going: “but this isn’t one of those moments. I can’t fix it with a conversation. Mostly because I don’t want to.”

“But how can you not?” Robin’s smirk slides right off and now she just looks stricken. Steve always loved how expressive her face is, how acutely she feels things, how deeply, even though she tries to seem aloof and callous.

“Because I’m over it,” Steve says it even if it’s not exactly true, “because I spent so long thinking about him and wondering what I did wrong that I’m done. I don’t want to do this. And I don’t have to.”

“But what if it could be better,” Robin tries, and Steve can see that it’s her last-ditch effort.

“I’m not desperate enough to try finding out and risk it getting worse,” Steve tells her, earnest, “I’m kind of okay, after everything we’ve been through, being a coward about this.”

Robin doesn’t say anything for a moment and then she looks up at him, a long, painful stare that ends in a hug: “I love you, too,” she says into his hair, “but I think you’re making a mistake.”

And that makes Steve push at her until she has to let go and Steve is starting to feel like she’s not listening. It bubbles into anger, he stands up again, goes to open the door, tells her: “you know what? Just this once, I really don’t care.”

She still kisses him on the cheek when she leaves and that tells him all he needs to know about where they’re at.

On the seventh day, Max knocks at his door.

“Sup, Red?” he greets. He decided to switch his sweats for cargo shorts today, so he’s glad that he maybe doesn’t look as pathetic as when Robin last came by.

Max sprawls on his couch like a sack of potatoes, gives a little ‘oomph’.

“School is kicking my ass,” she whines.

“Ah,” Steve pats her head, a little in affection, a little to get her to scoot so he can sit next to it, “there, there.”

“Billy’s been at the diner every day since that first time,” she says after a long stretch of silence.

“Oh yeah?” Steve tries to sound casual, but his voice still cracks a little.

“He won’t tell me why,” she tells him, turning onto her back, her head in his lap, feet dangling off the armrest. “I asked him.”

Steve “hmms” a little but doesn’t reply.

“I just wanted to know what he wants. Why is he doing it and why _now,_ even though he’s been back lots and never went to see you” she tells Steve, “but he wouldn’t tell me.”

Steve leans back but keeps petting her head, running his fingers over her fiery hair. Maybe he should stop her, but he kind of wants to hear more, always craved any crumbs she left in her wake about Billy even if it was mostly about small and inconsequential things. 

“I’m sorry he’s doing this to you,” Max says a little out of the blue, closes her sad-looking eyes.

“You don’t have to pick sides,” Steve tells her because he wants her to know that he never expected her to, won’t love her any less because Billy is acting like an asshole. Max sighs, heavy. They stay in silence for long minutes. Steve lets himself think of Billy, a rare occasion. He thinks of how he seemed, those last two times, healthy, good, maybe a little worried. He lets his head drop on the back of the couch, closes his eyes.

Max says: “why have you never asked me about him?”

“Hmm?” Steve intones, low, a little lazily.

“Well, you could’ve,” she reasons, “but you never did.”

Steve thinks and says: “At first, it was too painful.”

“And then?” she pushes, but it’s soft, not like Robin.

“And then,” he says the answer before he realizes it’s true: “I didn’t want to put you in the middle of this.”

“Huh,” Max says, sounding surprised, “maybe that’s what he’s doing, too.”

And it is a surprising thought that Billy and him might have something in common.

When Max leaves, she says: “everyone is missing you at the diner” and then kisses his cheek.

The next day, Steve gets up early, early in the morning. He puts on actual, presentable clothes even if it’s just jeans and a t-shirt and then goes downstairs. When Robin comes in, she says nothing, but she smiles, a small, sly thing. And when her and James put on The Cure again and Steve hums to it under his breath, James tells him: “I haven’t heard this song in a week,” and then adds, “I kinda missed it,” says it like he means _I kinda missed you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on timeline and ages. It's implicit in the story but no harm in noting it here for context.
> 
> Steve, Billy, Nancy and Jonathan are 25 (I made them all in the same class, because... convenience), and Robin is 24. The kids are 20 (or turning 20) and in their 2nd year of University.  
> After high school, Steve worked at the diner for approximately 1.5-2 years before he bought it, which means that At Harrington's has been around for approximately 5-6 years.   
> This also means that Steve and Billy actually haven't seen each other for at least 7 years, if not more. 
> 
> It's probably cheating to have this information here instead of in the actual story but exposition can be so boring sometimes. I'd rather it be vague than boring.


	4. Four

“Either order something else or get out,” Steve tells Billy, takes a little notepad out of the pocket of his apron, clicks a pen.

Billy has been coming in every afternoon, hanging around for hours as if he had nothing better to do, only ordering coffee like they don’t serve food here at all. After Billy’s fourth free refill of the day, Steve can’t take it anymore and he can’t very well send Diana over to do it, so he decides to walk over himself.

“Hmm?” Billy hums, after the initial surprise of being acknowledged by Steve wears off. He reaches for the menu, flips through it, “what’s good here?”

“Everything,” Steve tells him, feeling annoyed and short-tempered, feeling like he’s going to start tapping his foot any second now. 

“Ok, then surprise me,” Billy tells him, flipping the menu closed.

“I’m not going to do that,” Steve says, tries to keep his indignation out of his tone, doesn’t want to give this guy an inch.

“Come on,” Billy drawls out, smiles, sly, like he used to in high school when he was chatting up a pretty girl. Steve feels like he’s going to throw up when Billy says: “humour me.”

“I don’t think I fucking will,” Steve snarls, under his breath, tries to not make a scene in front of the other patrons. His face screws up in disgust. Billy looks surprised. “I’ve been letting you come in here because kicking patrons out is bad for business but whatever game you’ve got going here, I’m not fucking playing. So, order. Or get the fuck out.”

Steve hopes Billy will get the fuck out. Hopes he’ll get the hint and never come back. But Billy just slides his arm off the back of the booth and into his lap, lets his eyes roam over Steve, catch on the words peeking out of Steve’s t-shirt sleeve.

“I’ll take a cheeseburger,” Billy says, looking right at them, like the rude bastard he is, “and fries.”

“Cheeseburger and fries coming right up,” Steve says, all the cheer in his tone more fake than CheezWhiz.

***

Steve whines to Dustin in the back, where he’s sure Billy can’t hear.

Says: “I can’t take it anymore.” Says: “he needs to go.” Says: “doesn’t he have a life to live or, whatever.”

Max walks into the storage room, sits on one of the boxes, says: “some big film company bought one of his scripts. With the extra money, he says he can write anywhere.”

And, huh, that’s news.

“What script?” Steve asks because he’s curious. Because he likes to think Billy can’t even read, let alone write.

“You’ll have to ask him” Max smirks, sends him a wink before grabbing what she came in for and waltzing away.

“Everyone’s against me,” Steve whines to Dustin.

“There, there,” Dustin pats his arm, absently, his tone not consoling at all.

***

With Billy always around now, Steve feels a little like he’s under the microscope. Billy doesn’t spend _all_ his time watching Steve but often, when Steve looks up, his eyes are on him. Maybe it’s a coincidence, Steve tells himself, and barely believes it.

Steve also sees other things, though. He sees Billy reading. He sees him writing. He sees him smiling at a kid that comes waddling up to his table, a little unstable, sees him talking to his mom like he’s actually interested to know about the kid, asking her his name, and age, super regular shit like that.

One day Billy buys milkshakes for the kids in the corner booth. Another day, he sends a cappuccino to a mother of three that seems to be falling asleep in between feeding fries to one of her little ones. Steve sees all this and rolls his eyes and huffs and feels generally unhappy all the time. The only saving grace of this whole damn situation is that Billy doesn’t try to start any conversations with him. Not anymore, at least.

Billy comes in at sporadic times during the day, but he never leaves before Steve is done working and that _really_ grinds on Steve’s nerves. The days when he doesn’t show up, Steve counts as a godsend. At least he would have if he believed in that sort of thing.

Steve tries not to close anymore. Hates just the thought of ending up alone with Billy. But one day he decides ‘fuck it’, because _this_ cannot go on. So, he sends everyone home and sweeps the floors and wipes the tables himself.

Billy is sitting at the counter, sipping on a cappuccino and reading Vonnegut like the pretentious bitch he is. He’s, predictably, the last patron left.

“We’re closing,” Steve tells him, and besides that bit with the cheeseburger, this is the first time they talk.

“You don’t usually close,” Billy says, as if Steve needs to be informed _of his own fucking schedule!!!_

“Yeah, well,” Steve waves his hand, feels foolish.

They stay like that for a moment, in silence: Billy sitting at the counter, Steve standing in front of him, holding a broom, feeling like an idiot. Feeling incompetent, and stupid, and gross, reminded just with Billy’s presence that he _wasn’t enough,_ will never be _enough._

“You need any help?” Billy asks, suddenly and Steve says, without missing a beat: “not from you.”

Billy nods, like he expected it, like he’s been resigned to it for years before asking.

“Listen,” Steve says, following a long, tortured sigh: “what do you want?”

“Nothing,” Billy says, all too quickly.

“Then why are you always here?” Steve says, leans the broom against the counter so he can fold his arms.

“I think I’m going to stay in Hawkins for a bit,” Billy says, like that’s an answer.

“Good for you,” Steve says, tone careless, “Max will be happy to have you, I’m sure. But why are you always _here_?”

“Maybe I wanted to talk to you,” Billy says suddenly, lifts up his chin, squares his jaw.

“Oh yeah?” Steve smirks, an ugly, cruel curl of his lips. “What about?”

And then, without letting Billy say another word, goes on: “about how you blew me off? How you never wanted me?”

“Steve,” Billy says and from his mouth, it sounds like a prayer. Steve squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks back to that day, behind the arcade. Remembers it so easily from all those times he replayed it out on the back of his eyelids, over and over and over. He throws Billy’s words back at him as he says: “‘The universe made a mistake, because I could never want you’. That’s what you said to me.”

Billy flinches like he’s been hit.

“What if I was wrong,” Billy says, quietly.

“What if the earth is flat,” Steve slings back, “who fucking cares? What does it fucking matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” Billy gets up, his voice a little raised.

“No,” Steve says, feels like he’s made a mistake. He thought he was ready for this, but he doesn’t feel like he is, _knows_ that he’s not. “It doesn’t. You don’t get to do this.”

“You’re telling me you’re happy?” Billy says, starts coming around the counter, towards Steve. A predator, cornering his prey. That’s what Billy has always been, someone to crush Steve’s bones with a crunch, pierce his body until blood floods his skin, warm, and red, and sticky, a faint smell of iron in the air. Steve gulps, already feels the pain, a phantom, ghosting over the place where his heart should be, if it were not in a thousand pieces.

“Perfectly,” Steve nods, grabs the broom back, “or I was, before you showed up and fucked everything up. Again.”

“I’m trying to fix it,” Billy says, almost a growl, stands right in front of Steve.

“I don’t want you to fix anything,” Steve tells him, swings the broom in front of him to get Billy to back off, “you’re a selfish asshole.”

Billy grabs the broom, yanks it from Steve’s hands, tries to rest it back on the counter but it falls onto the floor with an ear-splitting clamour.

“Maybe,” Billy nods, “but aren’t you curious to try?”

He comes closer as he says it, lets his hand rest on Steve’s bicep, thumb right at the question mark of Steve’s words. Steve’s skin feels like it’s burning. He feels the blood in his veins sing. He lets out a sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, preparing for his blood to spill.

“I wanted to try,” Steve says, tries not to look into Billy’s eyes, tries to keep his voice level, “you didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Billy confesses, quietly, and Steve wanted to hear him say a version of those words, for years. But now that they’ve been said, Steve realizes that he just doesn’t believe him, that they hang hollow in the air, like lies. 

“I don’t believe that,” Steve whispers back at him, “I think you knew _exactly_ what you were doing.”

“Stevie,” Billy says, so tender, Steve feels the ache in his fingertips, “even after all these years, you read me like a book.”

Steve looks up, sees the glimmer in Billy’s eyes and yanks his arm out of his grip like he’s been burned.

“I can’t do this,” Steve tells him, “I can’t. I just can’t. Hargrove, you gotta go.”

“Steve, please,” Billy says but doesn’t reach for him anymore. Steve is grateful for that reprieve, but Billy’s tone is like a knife, slicing through him. His own pain amplified by the hurt in Billy’s voice.

“It hurts too much,” Steve says, feels like he’s suffocating.

“I know,” Billy says, clutches at his chest like he knows what Steve is feeling, like he’s felt this same pain, all those years, right along Steve. It makes Steve see red, makes everything so much worse.

“You don’t know shit, Hargrove,” Steve snaps at him. “You don’t know shit. _You_ did this. So, shut the fuck up about what you know. Shut the _fuck_ up.”

Steve feels the sting in his eyes and scrunches them up in anger, refuses to let Billy see him cry. Billy clutches at Steve’s biceps, again, holding him up because Steve is grasping at Billy’s t-shirt and shaking, and feeling like he can’t stand. Billy slides them down onto the floor, rests his back against the counter, lets Steve rest against his chest. He’s running a hand in circles across Steve’s back and “sshh”s at him quietly, because, for all his refusals, Steve _is_ crying, great big sobs wracking his body, making him shake with it.

“You’re right,” Billy says into Steve’s hair, “you’re right, Harrington.”

And then, after a long silence of just Steve’s settling sniffs, he keeps going: “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

Steve freezes, feels raw and vulnerable, like he’s been split open and all his internal organs are exposed and on display, glistening with blood and viscera under the diner’s lights.

“I knew if I told you I didn’t want you, you’d back off,” Billy tells him and his voice is so quiet, a whispered confession falling like snow onto Steve’s hair: “But I _always_ wanted you.”

Steve never knew Billy’s voice could sound so tender. Billy says: “The first time I saw you, I wanted you. Even before...”

Steve knows what Billy’s referring to. _Even before we spoke._ They sit there for so long that Steve’s tears dry out.

“It _couldn’t_ happen,” Billy says, eventually, “so I ran.” He says it like that’s that, like that explains everything and then lifts up Steve’s chin, wipes his thumb under Steve’s eye even though there are no tears to wipe away anymore. It feels like one of those moments, where you’re supposed to kiss, but they don’t. Steve looks away, moves away from Billy’s hands, lets Billy’s thumb trail the exposed words on his bicep for the last time before breaking contact.

He gets up and Billy follows him up and towards the door. Steve says: “you should’ve kept running.”

And Billy says: “I’m learning to stand still.”

Steve closes the door behind him and doesn’t watch Billy go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY!!! Sorry, sorry, I know this is a rough one, I know. I had a hard time writing it. 
> 
> I think Billy doesn’t really know what he’s doing. It’s obvious he’s not going about this the right way, but I think he’s a bit at a loss as to what the ‘right way’ might be.
> 
> And Steve is just kind of hopeless. He doesn't really believe in destiny, anymore, even though there's examples of it all around him. He likes to think he's evolved past it; a new breed of human, if you will, haha. 
> 
> Also, I really like Vonnegut. I don’t think people reading Vonnegut are pretentious (unless maybe I'm pretentious and don't realize it). I think Steve just thinks Billy is, no matter what he might be reading…


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I hope y'all don't hate on Nancy too much...

Steve makes a group chat.

He tells Robin and Nancy and Jonathan to take days off. Says, it’s an emergency, with a couple siren emojis and an SOS.

Robin comes up, knocks on his door like he ever locks it.

“Come in!” Steve yells at the door, “you can just come in, you know I never lock that thing.”

“Ok, one, dangerous, and two, I have manners,” Robin says like they don’t both know that’s bullshit and then lifts up her phone, Steve’s texts on screen: “What’s all this about?”

“We’re going on a road trip,” Steve says, “I need a change of scene.”

“Listen,” Robin sighs, sits down on the couch, watches him pace and throw stuff around like he’s actually packing instead of panicking, “would you just talk to him?”

“Well,” Steve stops in front of her, claps his hands loudly, “I did.”

“Really?” Robin perks up, “and what did he say?”

“None of your business,” Steve tells her, “can you just do me this one solid?”

“Fuck,” Robin says like she means, _why are you always such an idiot,_ “fine, when are you thinking?”

They work out the logistics and “GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE,” as Steve puts it, yelling it from the passenger-side window of Jonathan’s very sensible new(-ish) sedan. In the back, Robin and Nancy are hunched over a map, marking locations where they want to stop.

Robin says: “I want to see Indiana’s biggest ball of yarn!” and Nancy circles it on the map.

“And Indiana’s biggest ball of ear wax,” Robin says and Nancy circles _that_ on the map, too. Jonathan and Steve both make a face, because, ok, gross.

“What do you want to see?” Jonathan asks Steve, when Steve settles, flips through Jonathan’s Spotify.

Steve looks out of the window, at the forest passing them by and says: “doesn’t really matter.”

He pretends he’s not thinking of Billy.

***

They don’t really have a destination, but Nancy is a planner and she gets them two motel rooms along their route. They stop often, visit every roadside attraction Robin spots along their drive and end up at the motel much later in the day than they thought they might. It’s old, if not decrepit, with yellowing walls and musty sheets and a pool that’s been drained, maybe for the season and maybe forever.

They get dinner in the tackiest little tiki-themed bar Steve has ever seen. Robin has a real blast, ordering the largest Bahama Mama in the world and sipping on it while they wait for their food and then topping all of that off with a Zombie because she _always wanted to try one_. By the time they get ready to leave, Nancy has to swing Robin’s arm around her shoulder to make sure the younger doesn’t stumble onto traffic.

“She’s your problem now,” Nancy says good naturedly, when they say goodnight at their doors. Nancy and Jonathan slip into the room next to them while Steve tries to wrestle a loopy Robin onto the closest twin bed available.

“How are you this drunk from two cocktails?” Steve wonders, not really expecting a reply.

“It’s the Zombie,” Robin gives him one anyway. She hugs her pillow, mumbling something completely unintelligible. Steve wrestles off her shoes and covers her with a blanket, watches her snuggle into the pillow like a child.

There was a time, when him and Robin where just becoming friends, that Steve would indulge himself in the fantasy that Robin was his soulmate. Before Billy, Steve never really had an interest in men. He never really questioned his sexuality. A soulmate was a soulmate, their gender was just details, and his own sexuality… if he had to define it, he would say it was fluid, had to be. He would lie in bed sometimes, or on his couch, Robin tucked into the crook of his elbow, snoring lightly, and he would roll her words in his mouth, wishing they were his to utter. Because that would’ve been easy. Robin was easy to love, and she loved easily, too. She gave her affection easily, even if it manifested in barbs and jabs and jokes, mostly at his expense. He didn’t mind. She was kind, and beautiful, and strange, and even though, with time, he learned her faults as well as he knew his own, he always thought she was perfect.

It was just a fantasy, though. Steve’s lot in life was a soulmate that didn’t want him and Robin’s… well, hers was not a future of broken people but one of hopefulness. Her future was a person that would be all hers and that, Steve hoped, would never turn away from her, would never make her feel any less than what she was: utterly wonderful.

Steve watches her now, for a moment. Her blonde hair, falling into her eyes, her mouth open, a line of drool running down her cheek already. He shakes his head, affection lining his rueful smile and gets her a glass of water, puts a couple aspirin next to it on her bedside table, then goes out.

He walks along the terrace of the motel, out to the gate of the drained-out pool. Along the little space around it, Adirondack chairs line the perimeter. It’s on one of those sun-bleached chairs that Steve decides to rest. It’s dark; the neon sign of the motel the only light source, shining in a dull haze behind him. He takes out his lighter and lights a cigarette, breathing deep.

“Can’t sleep?” Steve hears Nancy’s voice and, sure enough, she comes into view.

“You caught me,” Steve jokes, stretching out his legs. Nancy sits down on the chair next to him, crosses her legs at the ankles, draped over the side, turns her body towards him.

“Robin ok?” Nancy asks, reaching for his cigarette and taking a drag.

“Out like a log,” Steve confirms, accepting his cigarette back.

The silence stretches as they pass the cigarette back and forth. Nancy leans back, a thin stream of smoke exhaled from her lips.

“I didn’t want to push you on this one,” she starts from afar, but Steve can already tell where this is going. “I thought you might come to me on your own.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Steve says, not sounding sorry at all.

“You know you can talk to me about this, right?” Nancy hands the cigarette back to him. There is only one drag left, the orange glow burning almost at the filter.

“I know,” Steve says, trying for elusive but falling short.

“But you’re not going to,” and maybe it’s supposed to be a question, but it sounds resigned. Steve winces.

“It hurts,” he says simply, stabbing the cigarette out on the ground.

“I know,” Nancy says and maybe she doesn’t _exactly_ know, but at least Nancy was there. She was there to see Billy’s coldness; she was there to pick up the pieces of Steve he left in his wake. It was Nancy’s room that Steve staggered into after the incident at the arcade, looking like he’s seen a ghost, feeling hollowed out and empty. It was Nancy who let Steve’s tears soak through her sweater. So, yeah, close enough.

“But you know,” Nancy starts, waiting for him to light another one and plucking it right out of his lips, “sometimes you gotta get through the hurt to end up on the other side.”

“Yeah?” Steve chuckles humourlessly and then tries to change the subject: “Jonathan know you smoke?”

“Ssshhh,” Nancy hisses, checking their surroundings suspiciously, like a cartoon character. “What he doesn’t know, won’t kill him.”

Steve laughs easily, reminds her: “he’ll be able to smell it on you.”

“Whatever,” she smiles at him wryly, her eyes crinkling comically at the corners, “YOLO.”

“Oh god,” Steve rolls his eyes.

But Nancy isn’t done with him, yet.

“Seriously, Steve,” Nancy grows solemn, “what is this all about?”

Steve breaths in, letting the smoke burn in his lungs. He exhales slowly, biding time. Eventually he says: “I guess, we talked.”

“I figured,” Nancy nods, “Dusty mentioned you decided to close.”

“Traitor,” Steve mutters under his breath, “yeah, I figured, I couldn’t really take it anymore, you know.”

Nancy nods.

“And?” she asks, stealing his cigarette again, perhaps so he can no longer use it for his stalling tactics.

“And, it was a disaster,” Steve exhales.

“Beginning, middle, end, Stevie,” Nancy chides him as if they are back in high school.

Steve tells her the gist of it. Tells her about how Billy asked to try again, about his confession, about how Steve told him he should’ve kept running.

They stay silent for a while; the cigarette burns to the filter in Steve’s unmoving fingers.

“Do you believe him?” Nancy asks.

“I don’t know,” Steve says honestly, “but even if I did… fuck, Nance,” Steve wipes a hand over his face.

“I know,” Nancy says, earnest, “I know he fucked you up, Steve. But Billy, he was kind of fucked up, too.”

Steve isn’t sure what to say to that. He suspected, of course. Gleaned, from Max’s words, from what he saw of Billy back in high school, that not everything in the Hargrove household has been copacetic. But Billy never said, and he’s never asked.

“I have a confession to make,” Nancy says, doesn’t meet his eyes for the first time in this conversation, maybe for the first time in years. Steve’s insides go cold, flash-frozen by the tone of her voice more so than by the words themselves. Whatever she has to say now, Steve is sure he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Billy and I,” Nancy starts, she’s fidgeting at her nails, nervously pushing at her cuticles, “we’ve been talking.”

“What?”

“Well, he wrote to me, if you can believe it,” Nancy says, sheepish. Steve absolutely cannot. “And I’ve been writing back.”

“For how long?” Steve asks, feeling stunned and betrayed. He feels nausea starting to settle like the pit of a stone fruit in the base of his throat, saliva flooding his mouth.

“Well,” Nancy says uncomfortably, “for some years now.”

Steve gets up, doesn’t bother to find out for how many years, exactly.

“Steve wait,” Nancy says, getting up after him.

“Sorry Nancy,” Steve chokes out, wondering why the hell he’s saying ‘sorry’, “I just need a moment to process that one of my best friends has apparently spent ‘some years’ being pen-pals with the dude that crushed my heart. It’s a thought that takes some time getting used to.”

His tone is light – Steve never one to make too big of a deal out of anything, always the goofy comic relief – but, it’s falsely so as his mind is spinning. He feels dizzy.

“Night, Nance,” he throws behind his shoulder, making a beeline back to the hotel.

Behind him, he hears Nancy yell after him: “Steve, wait!” but he doesn’t slow his pace.

He makes it just to the bathroom in their room, before hurling the entire contents of his dinner into the toilet bowl. It’s a good thing Robin is a deep sleeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell Robin is my favorite character? (Well, next to Steve, tbh)
> 
> Also, twist! Sorta… 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback much appreciated!!!
> 
> P.s. I wrote a companion piece to this fic called [Learning to Stand Still](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041465). It’s from Billy’s perspective and it gives some context to the next chapter. It might be a little too spoiler-y if you’re like me and like all your content completely spoiler-free, so be warned. Also, it’s a completely optional read; more a whim of my creative inspiration, if you will, than any actual vital info.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, kids! This is a long one...
> 
> Actually, the next couple of chapters are going to be on the longer side, too.

He _tries_ not to make it awkward in the car the next day. It helps that Robin and Nancy prefer to sit together in the back, plotting their route, but Steve also can’t bring himself to look at Nancy so the tension… it’s still palpable.

They make it out to Dogwood Springs before the sun sets and set up camp: two tents, four chairs, a campfire. The woods are quiet in that distinct way only nature can be, with leaves rustling in the wind, and birds singing in the trees, a brook babbling quietly in the distance, the chirping of crickets that are just starting to wake with the setting sun hovering like mist over the grass. It’s peaceful. Steve sits in his chair and breaths in the forest air, looks up at the sky, pinking from the setting sun, large white clouds floating by in mounds of cotton.

They have firewood but Johnathan still makes Steve go into the forest with him to collect small twigs and branches to get the fire started.

“Did you know?” Steve asks once the silence gets a little too heavy.

“What about?” Jonathan asks back, never one to make things easier for Steve. Or anyone else for that matter. Steve sighs loudly and refuses to be nice about this.

“About your girlfriend’s pen-pal,” he says, acid dripping from his words. It hurts just to say it.

“Yeah,” Jonathan says easily, “I pick up the mail most of the time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve demands, “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends, Steve,” Jonathan stops his search to look at him, says it like he’s being ridiculous. “It wasn’t up to me to tell.”

“Yeah, and the Nazis in Germany ‘just followed orders’,” Steve grumbles. He knows he shouldn’t say it even as he does but Jonathan doesn’t take offense easily, especially from friends.

Instead, he chuckles, a little humourlessly, says: “really, Steve?”

“Whatever,” Steve grumbles again and doesn’t meet his eye, keeps looking through the brush.

“Listen,” Jonathan, on the other hand, is not moving, still looking at him, “just talk to Nancy, ok. She had her reasons.”

“I don’t want to,” Steve says honestly. He hates confrontation, and he hates _talking,_ ugh. Things were much easier for him when he was just a single diner owner, before Billy came back and not only opened this can of worms Steve can’t seem to get a lid on but turned it upside down and scattered the worms all over the room like the moron he is.

“Some problems, you have to face head on,” Jonathan says as if he is reading Steve’s mind.

“Lately,” Steve tells him, “all my problems feel like that.”

“Yeah, man,” Jonathan chuckles again, “that’s life.”

Steve makes a noise like he wishes it wasn’t.

The fire is going strong. Robin and Jonathan are getting supper ready at their little table.

Nancy comes by, sits next to Steve on the grass where he’s idly poking at the fire with a stick.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” she says, crossing her arms on her folded knees.

“Do we have to?” Steve says even though he already knows the answer.

“Billy wrote to me first,” Nancy begins, instead, “the letter just came one day. He didn’t say much, just that he knew it was sudden but that he missed Hawkins and that he didn’t have anyone else to ask this of.”

“Ask what?” Steve doesn’t want to feel this curiosity blossoming within his chest and Nancy _knows_ him, knows just how to phrase her words to pull it out of him.

“To watch over Max,” Nancy says easily and then pauses, “and you.”

Steve digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I was harsh with him, I think, at first,” Nancy goes on, “told him that he made a terrible mistake and that I hated him and that was that, I thought he won’t write anymore. Except he did. He wrote soon after, and he said…” she pauses, looking for the words, “well, he said that when he met you, he didn’t feel like he had another choice. That there were circumstances in his life that only led him to one decision even if he knew, or at least suspected, that he would live to regret it.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything.

“After that,” Nancy says after a long pause, “it was just, you know, updates. Friends stuff, I guess. It just sort of happened. I would tell him about Max, you know, the stuff she wouldn’t, and you, of course, but also Jonathan and me and sometimes even Robin and he, he would tell me about LA and his mom and how he was.”

“Sounds nice,” Steve says, trying for sarcastic but the softness in his voice betrays him.

“He would talk about you a lot, in those letters, too,” Nancy says.

“Stop, Nance,” Steve tries, letting his fingers curl into his hair.

“No,” Nancy says softly, “no, listen. I don’t think he was even aware of it, he would always write things like ‘I wish Steve could see this’ or ‘I think Steve would really like that’, stuff like that. Like you were always on his mind, like he couldn’t even help it. And sometimes, when times would be rough, it would get more frequent, as if the mere thought that you were out there, in the world, was a source of comfort for him.”

“This is bullshit, Nancy,” Steve pushes his hands into the grass and dirt beneath him, feels the coolness and dampness of it under his fingerprints, clinging to his nails, fighting the gravity of earth and grief as he gets up.

“What?” Nancy says, her eyebrows shooting up to her fringe.

“All of it, what you’re saying, what he told you, it’s all bullshit, Nance,” Steve says, angry, “he doesn’t even know me. He turned me away and then reduced me to a concept to ‘exist in the world’ for his ‘comfort’. Instead of coming to see me, instead of writing _to_ me, he would much rather pretend I’m some abstract idea for him to mull over in his mind when it’s convenient. And then, when that’s not enough, well, why not go down to Hawkins and take a peek at the real thing. I’m not a toy. I’m not some _thing_ you put away when it’s inconvenient and then take out when you feel like. You want me to feel sorry for him? Forgive him?”

Nancy is stunned. Steve sees, out of the corner of his eye, that Robin and Jonathan have turned towards them, now, too.

“It’s not about him,” Nancy shoots back, “it’s about you.”

She takes his hand even though Steve feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his own skin from the anger and grief roiling within him.

“These past years, it’s like you’re holding your breath,” Nancy says, “everything is fine, the diner’s going good, Max and Dusty are growing up, we’re all still friends, but you’re only half in. You’re holding back. Some days you seem like you’re on auto pilot, just minute-to-minute, just… you know, ‘get through it’,” she raises her fingers in ridiculous bunny ears as she’s talking, squeezing his hand tighter.

“I want you to start breathing, again, Steve,” Nancy says, her eyes are shining like they’re wet, and Steve hasn’t seen her cry since her dad passed. He feels his breath hitching as she says: “and if that means you have to give Hargrove a fucking chance because he finally took his head out of his ass then, fuck, Steve, that’s what I want you to do.”

“Why are you all so worried about my fucking happiness,” Steve says, tugging at her hand, trying to get out. Nancy won’t let go. Steve says: “I’m fine. I _was_ fine.”

“But you can be _great,_ ” Nancy says like she’s begging him to understand.

“It’s a double-edged sword,” Steve warns, “and you know it.”

“Come on,” Nancy cajoles, “King Steve, don’t you remember how easily you used to take risks? Jumping into that pool from the roof at the end of ninth grade? Or how you asked me out in front of the whole class?” Nancy rubs her thumb over his knuckles, squeezes his hand again like she’s scared, “how you swung that bat? You never gave up, Steve, even when it was hopeless. Now you tell me about double-edged swords?”

“It’s different,” Steve says.

Jonathan and Robin come by.

Robin says: “food’s ready,” and Steve is happy she’s staying out of it, but Jonathan says: “what are you hoping will happen when you come back?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. He’s thought about it a lot and really, really hoped no one would ask him that.

“I’ll come back,” Steve confesses, “and he won’t be there. Problem solved.”

The three of them share a look, as if there’s a group chat of just the three of them somewhere and in it, after much debate, this is the version they’ve agreed to expect from him.

“Look,” Nancy says, “I brought you something.”

She goes to one of the tents and digs through her backpack just to come back with a folded letter.

“Billy wrote this to me about a year ago,” Nancy says, stretching out her hand towards him, “I think you should read it.”

“I don’t want it,” Steve says, looking at the folded-up piece of paper like it’s poisoned.

“Look, just take it,” Nancy says, “read it, don’t read it, it’s up to you.”

Steve takes it gingerly, folds it into the pocket of his jacket and zips the pocket up.

“Alrighty,” Robin says to break the silence, “let’s eat!”

All night, the letter is a heavy weight in his pocket. In equal parts, Steve wants to throw it into the fire and keep it safe and close to his heart. His fingers itch with inaction, his thoughts never straying too far from the folded-up piece of paper in his pocket.

They hang around the campfire for a bit after dinner, joke around, as the other three try to pretend they aren’t all watching Steve out of the corner of their eye like a bomb that’s about to go off. Steve sees them. But even if he didn’t… he’s not going to go off. Doesn’t feel like there’s any fight left in him.

They turn in for the night and when Steve finally hears Robin’s breathing even out, the silence of the night punctuated by her occasional soft snores, he can’t take it anymore. He digs around his bag for the little flashlight he always packs with him when they go camping and unfolds the small square of paper on his pillow.

It’s a little yellowed, a little dogeared at the corners. There’s a couple of round, crinkly marks on some of the words, blurring out the lines a little, that Steve doesn’t want to think about. The handwriting is so familiar, Steve almost puts the letter away right then and there but then his eyes catch on some of the words and he can’t. He’s in it now, might as well keep going.

_Dear Nancy,_ the letter begins.

_I hope Jonathan is recovering well. I was sorry to hear about his fall, and about Robin not being able to secure that gallery space. I hope she’ll find something soon. I wish I could’ve helped her, but, ya know, that probably won’t go over well._

Steve remembers the time, about a year ago, when Jonathan broke his ankle and spent months on crutches. The fact that Billy knew about it, was familiar enough with Nancy to comment about it, makes Steve’s blood boil in his veins. These are _his_ friends. _His family!_ Billy had no fucking right. It doesn’t get better from here.

_How are you?_ the letter goes on. _I know that that time of year is coming up, so I hope you’re well taken care of, even with Jonathan still on crutches. Call me if it gets too bad, I’m always here._

Steve huffs in indignation.

“You’re never here,” Steve mutters under his breath, disdainfully, “fucking liar.”

_I guess I should stop beating around the bush,_ Billy writes. His jagged handwriting is painful to look at.

_I went to see my mom today. I wanted to ask her about her and dad, you know. It’s been bothering me for years, how she seemed so much happier without him even though dad always said they were soulmates._

Steve thinks that’s interesting. Realizes he never really thought about how Billy’s parents split up, his dad shacking up with Max’s mum. It happens, of course. Life is full of different types of people in different circumstances. But he never really thought about it, about what that might have been like for Billy.

Billy writes, _God, Nancy, I’ve been so blind. And my parents, damn, but they’re fucked up. And they fucked me up, real good, too. God dammit, I know it’s not all on them, but I swear, some people shouldn’t have children._

It’s surprising, how visceral Steve’s reaction is at the implication that it might’ve been better if Billy was never born. Of course, it might’ve been easier for Steve, he can allow that much. But at least he always knew Billy was out there, a piece of his soul walking around in this other body, hopefully keeping him safe. The thought that there could’ve been a world where Billy didn’t exist is just as unbearable as looking at his jagged handwriting, so familiar and yet not his, not even addressed to him. Never to him.

And then Steve reads on and his eyes water.

_She told me they were never soulmates. That my dad never got his words. That for a long time, she thought she wouldn’t get hers, either. She said that when they met each other, it was comforting, to know that even though they weren’t meant for anyone, they were not alone. But when I was seven, she got hers. And she tried hiding them at first, but it wasn’t possible long term, and as time passed, she didn’t want to, either. She tried talking to him, saying that she’ll still be there for him. That she will always be his family but maybe he couldn’t see past the bitterness._

_I always thought my parents split up because of me. Because of my words, my destiny, because of what I might one day become. I thought maybe if I fight it, I can fix something for them. And now I’m finding out I had nothing to do with it, at all._

Steve sees him now, in his mind’s eye, younger and smaller, blaming himself for something he could never change.

_Everything my dad ever told me has been a lie,_ Billy writes, _and I’ve been too much of an idiot to see it. How could I ever think that the universe was wrong, that something that hurt so much can ever be the right thing to do?_

Turns out it’s hard, to glimpse humanity in your greatest adversary. To have them transform from a nightmare that only exits in your mind to a living, breathing human, with thoughts and feelings. Maybe, Steve thinks, he was also guilty of only treating Billy as a concept, never allowing himself to see him as real. Because that way, maybe it would hurt less.

And then Billy writes: _And I took all the fucked up shit my parents did and I fucked Steve right up, with my own two hands, the one person I should’ve protected, should’ve always been there for._ And Steve needs a moment.

He clicks off the flashlight, folds the letter back up in the dark, and scrambles out of the tent as quietly as he can. In the darkness, the stars shine like beacons, low in the clear sky. The bonfire has died down to embers, barely breathing with the undulating current of the air around it.

Steve sits by the dying embers. The heat they give off is almost negligible, so he wraps his sweater tighter around himself and clicks the flashlight back on.

_I don’t know what to do, Nance._ Steve bites his lip, thinks, _he calls her Nance,_ doesn’t know if to bristle or cry at the fact that he’s never heard anyone besides himself call her that. _I’ve been living in this pain so long it’s almost like a second skin. And now it’s been for nothing. What was I thinking?_

_I made all this happen. To me, to him. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore._

Steve can relate to that. Though maybe for a different reason. The weight in his heart amplifies.

_What should I do? How can I even begin to fix this?_

_If I were him, I’d never forgive me. He’ll never forgive me; it’s been too long. The universe has been a real bitch to him because he deserves so much more than me._

And he wasn’t going to forgive him, was _never_ ever going to. But seeing it written out on paper, in Billy’s handwriting… it’s almost eerie, like walking into a house long since abandoned, and feeling a breeze on the nape of your neck, like the fingers of a ghost, that may or may not be there.

And then Billy writes: _To be honest, now that I know all this, even though it seems impossible, even though I’m sure he won’t forgive me, I can’t help but hope._

_I know we barely know each other, I can’t really explain it, it seems completely irrational, but I’ve missed him so much over the years. Every time something happens, good or bad, I think of him. It’s probably delusional to think that I know him, even a little. The Steve in my mind is probably nothing like the real thing, though I’m sure it’s only because my mind could never imagine anything as amazing as I’m sure he is._

_But yeah, I can’t really help but think that maybe, damn, I can’t believe I’m even saying it, but maybe the stars will align, you know. Since it’s supposed to be destiny. And we might end up together despite all this._

By the time Steve finishes reading the last of it, he’s crying. Hides his eyes in his arm, shoulders shaking.

Arms wrap around him.

“Shh,” Nancy sooths, rubbing his back.

“It’s ok,” she promises, “it’s ok Steve, let it out, I’m here.”

Steve lifts his head up just to launch into her arms, clings to her the way he did back then, when they were kids in high school, trying to figure out a life they were not prepared for.

“I guess you read it,” Nancy says quietly. “I’m sorry you’re hurting Steve.”

After Steve calms down a little he leans back and thrusts the letter he still has clenched in his fist towards her.

“Take it,” he says, “I don’t want it.”

“He always signs off like that. Every single one, even the first,” she says, and Steve looks at her confused.

“Did you finish it?” she asks, careful.

“For the most part,” Steve allows.

“Ok, well,” she takes the letter still being thrust at her and grabs Steve’s flashlight, “look, right here.”

And Steve gets to read the rest of it: _You’ll probably tell me I’m being an idiot, like usual._

_I’m sorry for unloading all of this on you but, you know, there’s no one else._

_Thank you for being here._

_Look out for Steve for me, please. And Max._

_Love,_

_Billy._

“He told you he loved you in the first letter,” Steve says because he’s still a little, sarcastic, shit, “wow, good for you, does Johnny-boy know?”

“Shut up, Steve,” she says, without missing a beat, “no, this one,” points her finger at the line she means, awkwardly balancing the flashlight.

_Look out for Steve for me, please. And Max._

“Every time, without fail,” she tells him like it should mean something to him.

“Whatever,” Steve says, because he’s nothing if not stubborn.

“You sure you don’t want to keep it?” she asks, “you can.”

“I don’t want it,” Steve repeats and he’s not lying, it’s too painful to hold onto. And he knows himself, knows that if he has it, he’ll go back to it, over and over, until he has every word memorized, every curve, every jagged line.

“That’s alright,” she says, “I’ll keep it for you until you’re ready.”

Steve wants to tell her that he will never be ready, but he holds his tongue and just leans into her side.

They sit together for hours, watching the stars, mostly in silence at first. But they could never stay silent for too long. They talk about many things, but they don’t talk about Billy and Steve knows Nancy has taken pity on him, that even though her mouth is burning from all of the unsaid things, she’s keeping them back, for his sake. And he loves her all the more for it.

They head towards home not long after.

Steve doesn’t tell them to, but they all seem to know him well enough to understand that he’s done with this trip. That whatever he was trying to accomplish has either been accomplished or will never be accomplished. So, they just kind of come to a mutual agreement and he doesn’t feel like he wants to contribute. His friends, his _family,_ they often know what’s best for him, sometimes even better than he does.

Home feels like a warm blanket, just out of the drier, wrapped around his shoulders. It shrouds him in its comfort. He unrolls his sleeping bag on his little patch of roof outside his kitchen window and reads a book he’s been meaning to read for months as the sun sets around him. Then he climbs back in and goes to bed, snuggling into the comfort of the covers.

If he dreams of Billy, he’ll never admit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, damn... This was the chapter that on one of the edits actually made me cry. I cry pretty easily, tbh, but rarely from something I wrote so that was kinda cool...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! More coming soon! Leave a note if you have any feedback, I love that shit! ;)


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might get a lot of shit from y'all for this one but this chapter is actually my favorite. More on that at the end…
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve doesn’t go to the diner on Friday. He skips Saturday and Sunday, too.

He tells himself it’s just because he’s tired, feels like he needs a vacation from his vacation but that’s not really the truth. The truth is that if he doesn’t go to the diner, he won’t know if Billy is still around. This Schrodinger’s cat existence easier to bear than trying to be honest with himself about which he would prefer: Billy still being there, or Billy being gone.

No one visits him. Robin checks in via text, morning and evening, like clockwork but other than that they leave him alone. And he’s grateful for the space they give him. Grateful because this space gives him time. To think. To process. Sitting at his desk, lying on his roof, Steve thinks and processes. And whether he wants Billy gone or not, suddenly becomes less important.

Steve examines his life from the moment Billy came into it; inexplicably, inexorably became a part of it, a part of Steve. He looks at their brief moments together and at all that followed and in the aftermath of his examinations, a great truth reveals itself, a truth that – Steve must now admit – he spent all those years denying, hiding it away from himself for the potential of pain, the potential of damage it had. This great truth was simple: his life post-Billy has, for better or worse, become a constant, assiduous exercise in trying to be better. No matter how much he tried to prove to himself and others that he didn’t care that he wasn’t enough, that he didn’t care that Billy didn’t want him… implicitly, almost unknowingly, Steve devoted his life to trying to be better and – though, of course, not the only one – a big motivation for this exercise has been… well, quiet truthfully… Billy.

Finding out that Billy’s motivations were not rooted in Steve, were not influenced by Steve, meant that Steve, astonishingly, never _had to be_ better _._ And, yet, here he was, on the other side: more selfless, more compassionate, more thoughtful.

Perhaps it was time, then, to be more courageous, too.

Come Monday, no longer able to justify his absence – this distance he was putting between himself and his greatest source of joy, of pride – Steve goes in, as always, early in the morning. He opens the blinds onto the yet-empty street, gets the rolls going, tells James ‘good morning’ when he comes in. Robin rolls in at six-thirty, as always, thanks him for the eggs and bacon, the toast with the jam. She doesn’t put The Cure on, though, and Steve doesn’t ask her to.

“Have a good day, Stevie,” she tells him with a smile, kisses his cheek on her way out and flips the sign to open before she leaves.

The day goes on as usual. Steve doesn’t put away his apron until lunch and then goes into his office and tries to stay focused on his work, tries to banish all the nervous energy that’s been growing within him with every ring of the little bell over the door.

He goes back out just before the dinner rush, to say hi to Max and Dustin, to spot them when it gets too busy. He tries not to look for him, tries to tell himself that Billy isn’t coming and that that’s what he wanted, so all is well. Max and Dustin don’t mention him and neither does Nancy when she drops in for a coffee and a chat.

It’s as if Billy’s never come back, as if the past month never happened. Steve tells himself he’s glad. Things will go back to normal and the turmoil in his heart will settle soon and all will be good again, simple. Maybe even better than before.

Towards closing time, the diner grows quieter. Dustin and Max hang out at the counter when he comes back form the kitchen.

“Man, this project is killing me,” Max tells Dustin.

“Just a little longer,” Dustin tells her, tone comforting, “and then it will be over.”

“And then there will be another one,” Max says, crestfallen.

“You guys go on ahead,” Steve interjects, “I can close tonight.”

“You sure?” Max asks as if she doesn’t think he can handle it just as Dustin says: “but you’ll still pay us for the full shift, right?”

“Right,” Steve chuckles at Dustin as he brings Max into his side, kisses the top of her head: “yeah, Red, I’m sure. Go on, get your project done.”

“You’re the best, Steve,” she says, hugging him properly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says as he lets her go, and then flicks his towel at them, “now scram.”

They giggle as they go to change and then giggle some more as they say their goodbyes on the way out. Steve watches them go, a smile on his face. His kids, the last two to stay behind, with everyone else going to colleges out of state. He has no idea what he would’ve done without them.

Steve takes his time closing. Methodically wipes the formica-topped tables, cleans the espresso machine, refills all the salt and pepper shakers. When the door-bell chimes as he wipes the counter, he doesn’t even look up.

“We’re closed,” he says, scrubbing at a congealed stain of strawberry jam at one of the corners.

“The door was open,” Steve freezes halfway through his circular motions and takes a moment to look up. Billy looks like he’s not sure where to put his hands. His hair is swept back, his white t-shirt is topped with a leather jacket that matches his dark jeans. He looks so good. Steve feels betrayed by his own heart that, against his better judgement, is flooding with relief.

“You’re still in town,” Steve says and hopes his voice doesn’t sound as weak as his knees feel.

“Yeah,” Billy rubs at the back of his neck, seems sheepish.

“I thought you left,” Steve says and feels like an idiot.

“No,” Billy says, looking a bit like he might be feeling like an idiot, too, and then adds: “I got held up with something today.” As if Steve asked him why he didn’t come earlier. Which, like, no, Steve did not ask that, Steve doesn’t care at all, whatever, this is stupid.

But Steve’s mouth has a life of its own, apparently. He says: “Are you ever going to go away?” and Billy looks at him with such intensity, Steve is worried he’ll burn a hole right through him.

“Only when I know for certain that all this is hopeless,” Billy says.

“And is me telling you it’s hopeless not enough?” Steve asks, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“Will you be telling me the truth?” Billy challenges a little. And Steve thinks, _there he is, the Billy I know,_ even as he concedes to his own mind that he doesn’t really know him at all. 

“You think you can tell when I’m lying?” Steve challenges back, instead of participating in whatever inner feud his mind and heart are trying to start.

“Yeah,” Billy says, “I might.”

“I couldn’t,” Steve reminds him.

“Couldn’t what?”

“Tell if you were lying,” Steve elaborates, and then adds: “back then.”

“That was different,” Billy looks away, like he’s ashamed.

“How so?” and Steve thinks he probably shouldn’t be this civil with the guy, but his tone is too curious for anything else.

“I don’t really know how to explain it,” Billy says, tone uncertain, “I think you might’ve been in a headspace not to look too hard for the lie. All too ready to believe you weren’t wanted.”

Steve frowns. It’s scary to hear a truth about yourself you’d never admit coming from the mouth of someone you spent years being angry at. The fear swirls uncomfortably in Steve’s stomach, morphs into something else. Though Billy’s tone is soft, the words sound too much like an accusation. They make Steve’s hackles rise. He grips the rag in his hand tighter, spits out: “so, you’re saying this is my fault?”

“Never,” Billy says with so much conviction and heat, that Steve immediately feels all the fight go out of him. He calms down even if he doesn’t want to.

“Alright,” Steve concedes easily, almost _too_ easily, and goes back to wiping the counter not sure what else there is to say.

After a long silence, he hears Billy move. The other man comes up to the counter, says, a little hesitant: “so, can I stay?”

It’s not exactly clear to Steve what Billy means but he looks up at him, takes a moment and knows he can’t fool himself anymore. Things have changed. Maybe not between them, exactly, and yet, nonetheless, they have.

Or maybe it’s just Steve who’s changed.

“You can stay,” he relents and then quickly adds: “but this isn’t a promise.” Okay, maybe just a little change. Baby steps. 

“Alright,” Billy concedes, takes a sit at one of the stools and says: “can I help you close?”

“You can sweep the floors,” Steve says, nodding towards the broom without looking up.

It’s not like they go from zero to sixty in seven point four seconds after that. No, this is more like climbing a mountain than driving Billy’s Camaro and, most days, Steve feels like they picked the steepest side for their climb.

Billy comes into the diner most days, maybe because Steve spends most of his time in the building, at the diner or at home or at Robin’s. He’s not exactly a shut-in – though the accusation has come up, thank you James, whatever, go away – but he’s busy with the diner and he rarely finds he needs to leave. And yeah, maybe Billy mentioned going to the movies or to the park on the weekends but it all sort of sounds a little too much like a date or something like that and Steve maybe isn’t all that ready for it. So, yeah, they mostly see each other at the diner and Steve prefers it. It’s his safe zone, his turf, and maybe the fact that it provides many avenues of escape is also a plus.

Mostly, though, Steve is still waiting for the moment the diner’s doors will close behind Billy one day, only for him to never come back. He can’t help worrying about going somewhere else with Billy and then spending months looking for him in those places after Billy finally decides that, hey, actually, he was right all those years ago, and he doesn’t want Steve, after all – like how he did with the arcade for many years after Billy left. At least with the diner, Steve knows where he stands, will have to face it head on, will have no choice. At least the diner holds other memories for him, will continue to be a source for more memories in the future, has the potential to overwrite the present once it becomes the past. So yeah, that’s a little messed up, he’ll admit.

But Billy doesn’t leave. Even though Steve gives him reasons. Some days, he can’t let go of the anger and the hostility and he unleashes them on Billy and then holds his breath, waits for the other man to stick his tiny notebook and pen in his back pocket, turn around, and get out.

Billy doesn’t. He just takes it. He doesn’t even fight back.

And then _that_ starts driving Steve nuts, too. Because Billy never seemed like the kind of person to just roll over and take it. And maybe, just maybe – don’t tell anyone – Steve starts baiting him.

One day, up on the roof, sipping on a cider, Robin says: “why are you such an asshole to him?”

“What are you talking about?” Steve says from where he’s lazily undoing his shoelaces to kick off his sneakers.

“To Billy,” she says between sips, “sometimes it’s like you’re testing his limits. What are you trying to do, exactly?”

“He’s just so passive,” Steve says through gritted teeth. And it’s a surprising thought, the idea that it annoys him that Billy seems to be holding his breath, too. Because that’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? Holding back.

“Maybe he’s just feeling bad, still,” Robin says like she’s thought of it, too. “He probably feels guilty. It’s hard to get rid of six years of guilt in a couple months.”

There’s a reason Steve is friends with Robin and Nancy and Jonathan, all people who are probably smarter than him. He always hoped it might rub off on him.

But it probably didn’t.

He doesn’t talk to Billy about it, like an adult might. He just keeps on baiting him.

And then, one day, he’s feeling exceptionally moody. There isn’t much reason for it. The day hasn’t really started off bad. But Steve has days like that, sometimes, when he’s snappy with his coworkers, a little cold with the customers.

When Billy comes in, it’s dark outside. It’s just Steve and Diana at the counter. The cook is playing ToonBlast in the back. There is an old man at the end of the counter, stirring his coffee, and a middle-aged couple picking at their dinner in one of the booths. Diana puts on one of her moody jazz songs on the Seeburg and it gives the whole place a sad, nostalgic feeling.

Billy says: “are you closing tonight?”

And Steve snaps: “what do you care?”

And Billy looks a little surprised, maybe because the last couple of times they’ve seen each other, Steve’s been more pleasant, in a better mood. But today, he wacks the cup of tea – because coffee is bad for you, so late in the evening, Hargrove – so hard on the counter in front of Billy that some sloshes out.

“I figured I could help you close,” Billy offers, his tone unchanged, mopping up the spilled tea with some napkins. Steve squints.

“I don’t need your help,” he sneers, and the way Billy looks at him, he might as well be biting down on his tongue, that’s how much it looks like he definitely has a comeback.

But all he says is: “alright,” and sips his tea, even adds a “thanks” right after.

Steve is clenching his jaw so tight he might be grinding his teeth down to nubs. He grabs the tea right out of Billy’s hands and doesn’t even notice when some of the hot liquid sloshes on his fingers as he puts it down by the espresso machine. Billy still says nothing, just looks at him, carefully, like Steve is a wild animal and Billy is trying to predict his next move, trying to understand how to best navigate him so that they both come out unscathed.

“Is this the kind of relationship you want?” Steve shoots at him, both hands on the counter, a challenge in his eyes, “where I just throw shit at you and you just take it all, because of guilt or some bullshit? Is this making you feel better?’

Billy opens his mouth a couple of times like he wants to say something but he’s still playing some sort of ‘pick the right answer’ game and he’s having a hard time deciding what that right answer might be, so Steve just barrels on.

“Are you here for me or the martyrdom?” Steve says, and yeah, that’s a cool word, take _that_ , Hargrove: “cuz I don’t need a soulmate that will just keep rolling over.”

And he storms off to the back, because Steve is nothing if not dramatic. Though, of course, now, he’s stuck in the back, unsure of what to do. He just paces up and down in their tiny pantry, trying to calm his shaking down. When he no longer feels like he might vibrate right out of his skin, he sits down on a crate and tugs at his hair. It’s embarrassing; blowing up like that, in front of Diana (though she’s seen him do worse), and his clients, and Billy… how is he supposed to go back out there?

He’s just about to take his phone out and text Diana to ask her if Billy is still out there when Billy walks in.

“You ok?” Billy asks, sitting down on one of the crates.

“Yeah,” Steve’s answer is begrudging. He won’t meet Billy’s eyes. The silence stretches and Steve will _not_ be the one to break it. He’s got a stubborn streak the size of the Wabash river, Billy’s got nothing on him.

“I’m just trying not to make any more mistakes,” Billy tells him.

“By pretending to be someone you’re not?”

“What makes you think I’m pretending?”

Steve looks at him like _really dude?_ and then just says: “last Thursday I called you a moron and you just nodded like ‘yes, master, yes I am’.” Steve is not sure what impression he’s making, but it seems to drive the point across.

Billy chuckles and then sighs through a smile. He runs his fingers through his hair, looks at the shelf where they keep the pickles as he says: “Some days, I do feel like I deserve whatever you throw at me,” he allows. Steve waits for him to continue and hey, look, he does: “but most days, I think I’m just too worried that if I react like I usually might, maybe say something in the moment I don’t really mean, or say something unintentionally cruel, or something you just won’t like… I worry you will change your mind and I’ll lose my shot.”

It’s stunning, to hear someone you desperately want to know actually tell you something real and meaningful. It’s stunning, to see them open up and show a piece of their inner world to you, show you that no, they’re not just a side-character on the sitcom-show of your life. That they are real and human and complicated. Steve feels a little like how he felt when he read that letter.

And he doesn’t mean to, but Steve has no brain-to-mouth filter, obviously, so he says: “You know, every time I close the diner, I still feel like I might never see you again.”

Billy looks at him then.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, plainly, leaving no room for interpretation.

“Well, I’m not changing my mind,” Steve says back in the same tone.

It doesn’t really seem like things change, at first. But they do.

Billy starts pushing back. It’s slow going, like they’re still climbing that blasted mountain, and then, one day, Steve realizes that his one-sided barrage of quips and insults has turned into banter. It’s a tennis match, back and forth, give as good as you get. And Steve laughs, feeling elated.

“What are you laughing at?” Billy asks, looking torn between frowning and smiling.

“Nothing,” Steve says, still chuckling, and then changes his mind and says: “it’s just nice.”

“What is?” Billy asks, “me saying that your hands grow out of your ass?”

“Having a sparring partner,” Steve says because he has banter with Robin and Nancy and Dustin, of course, but this feels different, somehow.

Billy drinks his coffee. The tips of his ears are pink. Steve thinks ‘progress?’, just like that, a little uncertain, and then goes to take the order of the family that just sat down at table number seven.

And it’s not just banter, either. When Steve gets moody, when he’s having a hard time or is feeling the pressure, and instead of talking it through, or taking a moment, he just unloads on Billy, Billy doesn’t just take it.

One time, he says: “don’t talk to me like that.”

And Steve pauses, mid outburst.

“I’m not your punching bag, Harrington,” Billy says, a snarl trying to get out from under his even tone.

They’re in Steve’s office and the space between them suddenly feels smaller than it did a minute ago.

Steve doesn’t back down, because he’s angry and upset and unreasonable.

Billy says: “I’ll see you later,” and leaves. Steve spends exactly ten minutes still fuming but he’s replaying the scene in his mind and yeah, doesn’t look good for him.

Then, he spends the rest of his time at work trying not to think about how no, he won’t see Billy later, because Billy is never going to come back.

Later, in the dark, in bed, illuminated only by the light from the screen of his phone, he takes a deep breath.

_I’m sorry,_ he types out and the response is almost immediate, even if those seconds still feel too long.

_All good,_ Steve reads Billy’s reply and feels all the muscles in his body relax.

Nancy and Jonathan invite him and Robin over for dinner. When they step over the threshold Steve immediately sees Billy. He’s wrestling with Max for the TV remote, so he doesn’t see him, yet and Steve allows himself a moment of panic, clutching at Robin’s hand on reflex. Robin tugs at it, trying to get out of Steve’s vise grip but Steve just tugs back and looks at her like he’s saying, _hide me,_ with his eyes.

Dustin is sprawled on the loveseat, filming the wrestling match and cheering for Max so no one’s actually seen them, yet. Except then Nancy comes out of the kitchen, closely followed by Jonathan. She’s wearing the silly apron Steve gave her for Christmas – it reads _your opinion wasn’t in the recipe,_ which suits her – and greets them so loud that Max comes out victorious in the struggle. Maybe because Billy’s head whips around so fast that he stops paying attention, basically hands the remote over to her.

Steve and Robin greet the couple as Billy comes up. He seems hesitant, his face a little soft around the eyes, a little slack-jawed. It’s maybe the first time they see each other outside the diner and Steve feels his palms starting to sweat. But Robin just hugs Billy in greeting, like she just hugged Jonathan and Nancy and maybe that helps.

“Hey,” Steve says, extending his hand for a handshake like he just did with Jonathan.

“Hi,” Billy says back, so soft.

It’s just the two of them in the foyer now that Robin’s been whisked away into the kitchen and Steve doesn’t feel like letting Billy’s hand go.

“Is this ok?” Billy finally says and Steve lifts an eyebrow.

“What is?” he asks.

“Me,” Billy says, just as Steve finally lets go, because it’s getting weird, “being here?”

Steve’s initial instinct is to say, _yeah, sure, of course,_ but he’s trying something new. It’s called _not hiding everything in a box in his mind labelled, ‘don’t touch’._

“It’s a little weird,” Steve confesses but he smiles, a small, shy thing and hey, look, Billy smiles back.

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling, “it is, right?”

Steve allows himself a soft chuckle, too. The moment feels fragile and dangerous.

But it doesn’t last.

“What are you two knuckleheads giggling about?” Max shouts from where she’s sprawled over on the couch, basking in her victory. Billy and Steve exchange a glance and Steve enters the apartment properly.

“What’s up, losers?” he greets his kids.

“That coming from you, Harrington?” Dustin shoots at him. He’s scrolling through his phone instead of looking up.

“No respect for their elders,” Steve tells Billy, shoving Dustin’s head so he’s forced to look up.

“Respect’s gotta be earned,” Max quips from her own spot, flipping through the TV channels.

“Maxine,” Billy says in a warning. Billy used to snarl that name at her. Max used to bristle under the weight of it, the implication. But there’s none of that now, only a softness in the tone, a self-indulgent smile in return.

“A-a-a-and, you’ve earned it plenty,” Max nods to Steve as if that’s just the second part of her sentence and she didn’t get a chance to say it, humouring Billy.

“See?” Steve says to Dustin, “why can’t you be more like Max?”

“Because if there would be two of her the world would implode,” Dustin offers, and they all burst out laughing. He’s not wrong.

Jonathan picks that moment to come out of the kitchen. He plucks the remote out of Max’s hands and turns the TV off.

“None of that, today,” he says, reaching for one of the colourful boxes piled up on top of their bookshelf.

Steve recognizes the Ticket to Ride box just as Dustin groans.

“I’m so bad at this game,” he whines, “I’m sitting this one out.”

“Perfect,” Jonathan says, plucking Dustin’s phone out of his hands as he goes, “you can help Nancy in the kitchen.”

“How old fashioned,” Dustin grumbles, grabbing his phone back, but goes to Nancy obediently. 

“Board games?” Billy mouths at Steve like he means, _where are the children?_

“You’ll see,” Steve mouths back.

He helps Jonathan explain the rules to Billy just as Robin comes out, relieved from her duties as sous chef.

And there aren’t many rules, but Billy seems to grasp onto the strategy with frightening speed. And – probably no surprise there – he’s got a competitive streak. He blocks all of Steve’s paths, builds the longest railway, and wins with a whopping one hundred forty-three points, twenty-two points ahead of Jonathan, who’s the runner up. Steve has a truly shameful seventy-seven, squarely planted in last place.

“Rematch?” Jonathan asks, hopeful. It’s been kind of a while since they played anything.

“You guys go ahead,” Steve says, “I’m done losing for now, I’m gonna go relieve Dustin.”

He doesn’t stick around long enough to hear anyone’s replies.

Dustin is happy to leave. Nancy has him stirring the risotto, since he cannot really be trusted with anything.

“Hiding?” she smirks, chopping the cucumbers for the salad.

“Taking a break,” he corrects, stirring the risotto thoughtfully.

“How’s it going, though?” Nancy asks carefully after a while. Steve sighs because he knows she doesn’t just mean the trains. He can see a sliver of Billy from the kitchen entrance. He is laughing at Max, who’s fuming that not a single red card showed up in the past ten minutes. He’s holding at least twenty cards in his hands already and Steve never expected Billy’s strategy to be ‘the hoarder’ but it’s strangely charming.

“If he leaves again,” Steve tells her, after a while, “I won’t recover.”

It’s an oddly sobering thought. The feeling of this secret dread, cold like shards of glass under his ribs, not yet scratching but always there, a reminder that if his lungs were to squeeze too tight, lose all their air, this feeling might pierce him all the way through. Maybe Nancy feels some of it in his tone, understands it through his words, because she supresses a shudder.

“That won’t happen,” she tells him, but it sounds a little like she’s saying it more to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love this chapter and I loved writing it, though it was not easy.
> 
> I think the reason I love it so much is because what I often see in fics (but also in some books and movies) is some sort of difficult situation that resolves and then everyone immediately goes from devastated to utterly blissful in four sentences… (not sure if that’s just my experience).
> 
> Well, I didn’t want to write that. I wanted to show that healing was a process, that relationships are a process, and more than anything, I wanted to show that they’re difficult. That just because you decide to move on doesn’t mean that everything slots into place and is perfect. Your problems don’t just go away when you’re in love. In fact, now you have a whole new set of problems and issues to deal with: the ones that your chosen partner brings to the table.
> 
> Any relationship (be it platonic, romantic, familial) is hard work and that’s what I wanted to write. And it’s not perfect, I know (some of you might've wanted this to go differently), but I love it, nonetheless.
> 
> Oops, went on a bit of a rant, I see…
> 
> ANYWHO! Hope you enjoyed! We’re almost at the finish line!!!
> 
> OH! P.s. thank you to user Hedges, for her wonderful comment in chapter 4. She actually inspired me to make some last minute additions to this chapter that I think made it even better! So, yeah, thanks!


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks!
> 
> Insert “it’s happening” gif from The Office here.

Life goes on like this. Summer stretches out it’s limbs way into September this year, giving them hot days and warm nights, early sunrises and late sunsets way past labour day.

Steve is busy with the diner and Billy is busy writing his next script or his next novel or his next set of short stories, Steve can’t really keep track. It always seems like Billy has a thousand things on the go.

One day, Steve is fiddling with the cash register when he looks up and sees Billy talking to an elderly couple in the booth across from him. He sees Billy gesture towards him, mid-sentence, looks up and smiles at him and _yeah, okay, yeah,_ Steve thinks in his mind, _I guess we’re friends now._ It’s a bit like a punch in the gut, a sun blooming beneath his solar plexus, the realization of it. And they are friends. They go out with Nancy and Jonathan and Robin, go see movies with Max and Dustin, they argue and bicker and laugh. They do all the things friends do, mostly. And it’s a kind of life. A nice life. Steve feels _happy._

Steve didn’t really dare think beyond that. He can’t recall when he stopped holding his breath or waiting for Billy to disappear on him, but he feels like he had and now… Maybe friendship isn’t exactly what he’s been gunning here for. Maybe, as he’s watching Billy smiling at him and then going back to talking with the couple, he’s feeling a little more ready for something else. The thought is both a revelation and an old companion that was away and is now back for a visit, a companion from a time when Steve’s words were pale and fresh. Maybe the companion’s name is Hope, maybe it’s Optimism.

That evening, when they’re done closing, and Billy is wiping his hands on a towel, getting ready to leave Steve doesn’t watch him go. “Wait,” he says, instead, without really knowing what he wants to say next.

“Yeah?” Billy says after the silence stretches too long. His voice is soft, hope creeping up into the edges of his smile. It’s too much. Steve feels like this hope is too much, and Billy’s gaze on him is burning through his skin, warming up every fiber of muscle underneath.

“Wanna come up for a beer?” Steve blurts out, for once happy that his brain-to-mouth filter has a tendency to malfunction around Billy.

“You sure?” Billy says, careful and this walking-on-eggshells, kid-glove, don’t-breath-everything-is-glass-and-is-going-to-break-if-you-move manner that Billy still lapses into sometime is so annoying to Steve that it seems to snap him out of this reverie, this fragile middle-ground they sometimes find themselves in when hope fills the air between them with something akin to tenderness. Steve is _not_ glass. Steve does _not_ live in the middle of a field of eggshells that must be kept perfectly intact at all times.

He says: “did I stutter?” and walks out of the door. Billy turns off the light and Steve locks up after them. It’s only on the stairs that Steve realizes that he doesn’t remember in what state he left his apartment this morning. He wasn’t exactly expecting company. Yeah, Steve doesn’t give a shit what Billy thinks of his living habits, except he kind of does. He kind of really, really does all of a sudden. Realizes with a start that he wants to make a good impression and, huh, that’s new.

“Ok, wait,” Steve says by the door, pushes at Billy’s chest to get him to take a step back.

“It’s okay if you changed your mind,” Billy says. Steve grits his teeth.

“I did _not_ change my mind,” Steve says, exasperated, “what do you think is going to happen, anyway?” he mutters under his breath before explaining: “I’m just gonna check everything, real quick, ok? I didn’t really plan for company.”

Billy chuckles like Steve is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. It’s gleeful and a little relieved. And yeah, it is a little ridiculous, Steve will grant him that. “Alright,” Billy says and leans on the railing behind him, gives Steve all the space he needs.

It’s not too bad inside. Steve shoves some shirts under the sofa and hopes he doesn’t forget he did that.

But Billy still says: “and this is what it looks like _after_ you’ve cleaned up?” because he’s a little shit and he even has the audacity to snigger at Steve like a little shit.

Steve says: “ok, that’s it, get out,” pushing Billy towards the door but it’s light-hearted, he doesn’t really mean it.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Billy says.

“Oh yeah?” Steve challenges. His hands are still on Billy, the force weaker now. There’s only an inch of difference in their heights but like this, up close, it’s more noticeable. It’s strange for Steve to be looking down, Billy’s form always seems so looming, he seems to always take up so much space in a room.

“Then apologize,” Steve says, smiling, breathless.

“Please forgive me,” Billy says, the smirk still plastered on his face, his voice low, a little breathy: “King Steve.”

Steve pushes him away, chuckles: “you’re such an asshole. Come on.”

Steve shows Billy the window in the kitchen and his little patch of roof, instructs him to climb through while Steve rummages through his fridge for the beer. It’s an interesting design feature in the building, Steve always thought. This isn’t really the roof proper, just a tiny section above what Steve has figured is Robin’s living-room. It accounts for her extra space. There are no guard rails up here and it’s a little sloping. 

Steve hands Billy the beer through the window and climbs out with a blanket. Billy seems a little apprehensive, at first, of the edge.

He says: “aren’t you ever afraid you might fall?”

“I used to,” Steve says honestly. “But you get used to things.”

They sit down and Steve says: “the roof slopes a little, doesn’t it?”

Billy hums in agreement and Steve goes on: “well, the slope used to feel a lot steeper, more dangerous. I used to climb out here and feel like I’d roll right off if I lay parallel to it. But I never did. And eventually, you start thinking, hey, did it flatten out? Except that can’t be it, right? The building can’t change on its own. And you realize, it’s you who changed. You stopped being so afraid of it and it stopped being so scary. You get used to it, I guess is what I’m saying.”

“I get that,” Billy says.

They sip on their beer in silence for a moment.

“I think people probably get used to a lot of things,” Billy says after a while.

And Steve says: “adaptable creatures: humans.”

“But some things,” Billy says, “you can’t really get used to no matter how much you try.”

“Yeah?” Steve says, “like what?”

Billy hums like he’s thinking, sips at his beer to buy himself time.

“Bad singing,” he says, like he’s listing things, “extreme weather,” Steve nods along like, _yeah, makes sense,_ and then Billy adds, quiet: “living without your soulmate.”

A month ago, these words might’ve burned. Now, they just spread warmth throughout his chest, dull some of those sharp edges he still feels sometimes, concealed within his lungs.

After Steve finishes his beer, he says: “some nights, I would sit here and look up at the sky and wonder if you might be looking up, too. Seeing what I’m seeing.”

It’s a quiet confession. Maybe the beer is making him a little braver, maybe it’s just having Billy this close that does it.

Billy reaches for him. An aborted movement like he’s forcing himself not, too. Steve doesn’t miss it and he doesn’t miss how Billy never seems to initiate physical contact, how he’s always so careful with his limbs around Steve. How he’s never like that around anyone else.

“You know,” Steve says, as he’s cracking open another can, tone casual, “you can touch me.”

“Yeah?” Billy says, not looking his way.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “you don’t always have to hold back so much. And you don’t have to always ask my permission. Or make sure that I’m sure about things. Or that I’m okay with things. I’m not glass, you won’t break me.”

“Sometimes I feel like I might have,” Billy tells him. It’s quiet in the street, a soft breeze ruffling their hair, the last warmth of the summer still riding its waves. Billy’s words are quiet, another confession breathed into the air. The moment feels fragile, tender. It’s nice.

“You haven’t,” Steve says, earnest “I was never broken. Just bruised around the edges.”

Billy rests his hand over Steve’s and keeps it there for the rest of the night.

They talk for a long time, stay up there for an hour, maybe more, Steve isn’t sure.

And then Billy goes home.

Billy is a tactile person. He hugs people when he greets them. He touches the hand of an upset friend in comfort, pushes at Max’s back in encouragement, follows his congratulations with a clap on the shoulder. And maybe a week ago, Steve wouldn’t have said that about Billy because he wasn’t like that around _him._

But Steve said: “you can touch me.” Steve said: “you don’t always have to ask for permission.”

And Billy, well, it seems like he took that and ran with it because now, it feels like Billy is touching him all the time. It’s like Steve broke a dam with his words and now Billy can’t stay away from him.

He grazes Steve’s fingers when he takes his cup of coffee from him. He hugs him when they say goodbye. He brushes Steve’s side whenever he helps close. It’s maddening. It’s thrilling. It’s sending all of Steve’s nerves abuzz. He is a livewire constantly exposed to Billy’s touch.

One time, when they’re alone, and Steve is counting the cash in the till at the end of the night, Billy comes up behind him. He puts his hands on the counter, on either side of Steve, puts his chin on Steve’s shoulder to watch what he’s doing.

Steve feels the wall of heat behind him, feels Billy’s lungs expand into his own body. It’s too much and not enough all at once so Steve turns in the cage of Billy’s arms. Billy’s eyes are blue but this close Steve can see the flecks of green in them, the ridges and valleys, like a waterfall in the middle of a jungle. Steve reaches for Billy’s jaw before he can step back. When their lips meet, sparks don’t fly, fireworks don’t explode on the back of Steve’s eyelids. Instead, all the jagged edges, the sharp cold shards of dread in his lungs melt away. Instead, when they separate, Steve feels like he can finally breath, his lungs expanding and shrinking at full capacity, finally working like they should.

And that’s so much better than fireworks.

Steve still holds him close, doesn’t let Billy go too far. Billy snakes his arms around Steve’s middle.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Steve says back, smiles: “is this ok?”

“Hell yeah,” Billy says, and Steve pulls him back in, but he can’t stop smiling, so maybe that ruins the whole kissing experience a little. But Billy doesn’t seem to mind.

He just says: “come to dinner at my place Friday?”

“Is anyone else going to be there?” Steve says, they’re so close still that Steve almost whispers it into Billy’s mouth.

“Just you and me,” Billy says, soft, like a secret.

“Good,” Steve tells him and pulls him back in.

Billy says: “it’s only temporary” when he shows Steve his apartment. It’s smaller than Steve’s. Just a kitchen-living room combo and a bed stuffed into a tiny bedroom with two bookshelves bursting with books. It’s sparsely furnished. There are unpacked boxes stacked behind the couch.

“What are these?” Steve nods towards the stack.

“The rest of my life,” Billy says, a little cryptic. “I wasn’t sure I should unpack them when I first moved.”

“And now?” Steve says.

“Now,” Billy pulls Steve to him, presses himself all along Steve’s back and whispers in his ear, “I’m looking for a bigger place, closer to the diner.”

It’s said like a fact, but it feels like a promise.

Billy is a mediocre cook, at best, but that doesn’t really matter. And he makes spaghetti which makes Steve laugh and say: “don’t you know that spaghetti is a bad first-date meal?”

To which Billy says: “is that what this is?”

And Steve feels only a moment of hesitation, a moment of panic before he looks up at Billy and finds him smirking, his waterfall eyes crinkled in the corners.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “what would _you_ call this?”

“First date sounds nice,” Billy breaths out and then louder, says, motioning with his fork at the spaghetti: “maybe this is a test.”

“A test of what?” Steve says and doesn’t feel his guard go up, doesn’t feel his hackles rise.

“To see if you still like me if I’m covered in pasta sauce?” Billy says it like there’s a question mark at the end.

“Oh yeah?” Steve laughs, takes a sip of the wine.

“To see if I still like you?” Billy goes on.

Steve laughs at the suggestion where, only a month ago, he might’ve bristled. Takes a big forkful of spaghetti into his mouth and sucks it in as messily as he can, with as much noise as he can muster. He’s pretty sure a spot of sauce lands on the wall next to them. Billy laughs.

“Well?” he says to Billy once he’s done chewing and Billy looks at him with so much awe and joy that Steve doesn’t really need an answer, but he gets one, anyway.

“Come here,” Billy says, puts his hand on the nape of Steve’s neck, closes the little space there is between them just to plant his lips on Steve’s, sauce and all. It’s messy. It’s kind of gross. It’s wonderful.

“Pretty good,” Billy licks his lips.

“Gross,” Steve chuckles, but feels satisfied, as if he got the result he wanted.

Steve doesn’t stay the night, either.

They say a lo-o-ong goodbye at the door, full of kisses and touches, and whispers.

“One more,” Steve says and kisses Billy for the seventh time.

“Ok, ok, one more,” Billy says, and kisses Steve again.

“I have to go,” Steve says, hears the honk of the taxi outside and still says: “one more, last one.”

Billy chuckles as Steve leaves, their fingers catch one last time before they let go.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Billy shouts down the stairwell and Steve looks up at him and smiles before disappearing out the door.

Steve isn’t as strong the next time.

Now that he has Billy, _really_ has him, even though it still hurts sometimes, even though it’s not perfect, the good is just… _so_ good, _so_ worth it. And so, the next time he ends up at Billy’s place, when Billy whispers _“stay”_ into his ear, he does.

They fall into bed, heat burning between them at all their many points of contact.

Billy says: “we can take it slow.”

And Steve says: “I’m not going to break.” And then proves it.

It’s only when he feels like they might melt into one being any second now that Steve realizes how long he’s been waiting for this, how much he wants it, how much he’s wished for it.

Billy can’t stop kissing him, his lips and his collarbone, his shoulder, his hand, his wrist, and chest and neck and hip and thigh. He whispers things in between the kisses. _I missed you, I’m sorry, you’re beautiful, I love you._

Steve stops, their rhythm broken. He looks down at Billy. His hair is a mess of spun gold on the pillow, his lips are red, his pupils are blown.

“I love you,” Billy says, runs his hands up Steve’s biceps, presses his thumb into Steve’s words. Not enough to bruise, but enough to ground Steve in the moment.

“I love you,” Billy says again, “I’m not taking it back. I love you.”

Steve jerks his hips, pushes his hand into Billy’s ribs, lowers his mouth down to Billy’s ear. Once Steve has caught the rhythm again, he says: “I love you, too,” and speeds up.

Billy moans. And Steve says it again.

They’re soaked in sweat. Steve’s hair is sticking to his forehead. The lamp on Billy’s bedside table is dim and yellow, making Steve feel like he is in a dream.

After, when they’re both catching their breath, Steve’s head in the crook of Billy’s elbow, he says: “this feels like the type of sex people in movies have a cigarette after.”

Billy laughs: “what, depressing, motel-room, infidelity-sex?”

“What?” Steve exclaims, indignant, slaps Billy’s chest playfully and says: “no.”

He pauses, lifts onto his elbow to wink at Billy from above: “mind-blowing sex.”

Billy growls at that, flips Steve to his back, pins his arms down as he hovers over him: “you keep talking like that, baby, we’re gonna have to go again.”

Steve’s maybe not sixteen anymore, but right now he sure feels like he might be, so he looks up at Billy with a challenge and says: “let’s go.”

“Insatiable,” Billy rumbles at him and dives in for a kiss.

Billy doesn’t let Steve have a cigarette in bed, like in the movies. But he does open the window and let Steve smoke out of it, even though it’s only marginally better. Steve’s naked torso is hanging out as much as he can safely manage. The breeze – already turning colder from the oncoming October – cools the sweat on his skin, ruffles his hair.

“Nasty habit,” Billy says, before plucking Steve’s cigarette out of his fingers and taking a drag.

Steve just laughs.

When he wakes up – the line of light from the window finally crawling up to his eyes – the sheets next to him are empty and already cool to the touch, but there is noise outside of the bedroom so Steve’s not worried. He feels calm, happy. He stretches, feeling the ache in all his limbs. It’s a good ache, he decides, a sign of strain and effort.

Steve lets his mind drift to last night, thinks about how first times can be awkward and strained: two people trying to figure out what works, trying to figure out what’s good. And last night was none of that. He felt no awkwardness, no embarrassment, no shame. He felt complete in his own body, felt relaxed and confident. And maybe that’s the difference, when it’s, you know, your soulmate.

Soulmate.

What a weird word. What a strange concept. His mother used to talk to Steve about it when he was a kid. She’d say, _one day, you’ll meet someone who will love you as I do, wholly and unconditionally. They will always cherish and protect you. They will always be there for you. And you will have to do the same for them._

For a long time after he met Billy, Steve thought back to those words in disdain. His mother, he thought, was a filthy liar. She had hers, she was _lucky_ , so she just spun her own truth at him, never giving him all the information. It was all just bullshit. Bullshit about his soulmate, about her _unconditional_ love. Steve would think about it with anger and spite.

But she was right, after all. When Steve told her about Billy, she said, _baby, the universe works in mysterious ways. Your time will come, you’ll see. He is meant for you, as you are for him. You can’t escape destiny._

Steve thought she was full of crap.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Billy says from the threshold. He’s holding a cup of coffee and is wearing an apron over his boxers, and nothing else.

“Mornin’,” Steve squints at him, stretches again, knowing full well that now he’s just showing off, his body on display. Billy’s eyes follow the lines of his body up to Steve’s eyes, but he refuses to get distracted.

“You looked very intense there for a second,” he says instead, “whatcha thinkin’?”

“Just about my mom,” Steve says earnestly and delights in how Billy screws up his face.

“Not really what I expected to hear,” Billy says, sitting down next to Steve. Steve laughs.

“I was just thinking about what she used to say,” Steve explains, “about soulmates. About how it’s destiny and all that.”

“Let me guess,” Billy says, kissing Steve’s shoulder, “you didn’t believe her.”

Steve doesn’t deny it. He just says: “I was thinking I might call her.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, pecks him on the lips and then the forehead and then gets up, before Steve can get his grabby hands around his neck, throws a “come have breakfast,” behind his shoulder as he leaves the room.

Steve scans the floor for his clothes. Pulls on his boxers and his t-shirt but leaves the rest where it landed.

Billy made eggs and bacon and toast. Pretty standard fair. He steeps tea because Steve always turns his nose up at coffee, unless it’s from the diner’s espresso machine, and even then.

They don’t talk while they eat. Just sit in companionable silence and enjoy their breakfast. Billy gathers their dishes and starts to wash up while Steve finishes his tea. When he brings the cup up to the sink, he lets his arms snake around Billy’s middle, a move he definitely picked from his… his… what?

“Are we…?” Steve starts but isn’t sure where he wants to take this. It’s new for Steve, to be on this side of it, to be the one asking permission and clarification. It feels vulnerable, it feels scary. Steve wonders if Billy’s been feeling like that this whole time.

“What?” Billy asks, washing Steve’s cup.

“You know…” Steve says, hoping Billy is going to make it easy for him. Maybe it’s payback. Maybe Billy’s stubborn streak is also the size of the Wabash river, or close enough, at least, because he doesn’t make it easy.

“What, Steve?” he says. He sounds a little coy, a little hopeful.

“Are we together now?” Steve says into Billy’s shoulder blades. They’re naked and warm and sharp, they make a perfect space for Steve’s face to hide in.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that,” Billy says and now he’s definitely playing him.

“Are we together now?” Steve lifts his head up and raises his voice. He feels his face heat up, he notices Billy has three moles on his shoulder blades. It’s so precious.

“Do you want us to be?” Billy says as he turns off the faucet and turns around, “do you think you’re ready for it?”

“You think I do stuff like this with just anyone?” Steve says, sounding a bit like a brat. He steps back and folds his arms. He feels like he’s been _very_ obvious and Billy’s just being kind of a dick.

“Stuff like what?” Billy says and his lips are not smiling, but there’s so much mischief in his eyes.

“This,” Steve gestures to nothing specific with his hands, “breakfast and staying over and, you know…” Billy raises an eyebrow and keeps it there until Steve whisper-yells, “going again!”

Billy chuckles.

“I don’t know, man,” Billy says, coming closer to Steve. He pulls Steve towards him even though Steve’s arms are still folded and in the way, “you’re still all new to me. But I’m definitely okay with us going steady. _Way_ more than ok.”

“Yeah?” Steve says, small and quiet. His arms have unfolded and, somehow, ended up around Billy’s neck. He can’t tell you how.

“Hell yeah,” Billy says, smiling, “it’s like a dream come true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a lot of comments throughout this fic about how Steve and Billy should just talk it out and so it might be disappointing that they didn’t, that there wasn’t a huge scene with them talking it out and stuff. 
> 
> The truth is, I don’t think it’s common to deal with years of bad history by having one 5-hour-long talk before you move on. And, honestly, I always thought Steve and Billy weren’t really the type. 
> 
> Instead, I wanted them to deal with it in increments, discuss issues and worries as they came up. I thought these moments scattered amongst the last three chapters would create change between them in a more organic way. That might not be very satisfying, but I think that’s how they would’ve dealt with it if they were real. And there’s something to be said about how physical contact can sometimes be more powerful than words… It was also important to me that initiative always came from Steve, that Billy never pushed him. I thought it was only fair after what I've put him through. 
> 
> Anyway, just one more chapter left! Thank you for reading!!!


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks!

Steve is trying on his fourth button-up.

“What about this one?” he asks Billy who is sprawled on the couch, buried under a whole mountain of clothes.

“Baby,” Billy says, tone a little pleading, “honey, I told you, you look beautiful to me not matter what you wear. Please, please, just pick something.”

“Man, you’re no help,” Steve says, a little deflated, sitting down next to Billy. “It has to be perfect.”

“You _are_ perfect,” Billy whispers in his ear.

“Ugh,” Steve says, “the _outfit!_ ”

“I’m sure Robin won’t care what you wear,” Billy says, digging himself out of all the clothes to pull Steve closer.

“It’s her _first_ gallery opening,” Steve says it with reverence and awe, lifting his hands up like _get with the program here_.

Robin picks that moment to knock and come in.

“Everybody decent?” she says, even though she gives them absolutely no time to do _anything_ if they weren’t, before plopping onto the couch next to Steve, making the two men shift even closer. Steve gets up, pulls Robin back onto her feet.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” he asks, not letting go of her hand.

“What’s wrong with it?” Robin says looking down at her outfit, her voice so, so, innocent and so, so fake.

She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. It’s Robin’s “hide me” outfit and Steve sees right through her: she’s afraid.

“Ok, no,” Steve says and pulls her out of his apartment, towards the stairs.

“The t-shirt can stay,” he says as he digs through her closet. It her ‘Van Gogh, Van Goghing, Van Gone’ t-shirt and Steve thinks it’s cute and funny and very much _Robin._

“Come _on,_ ” Robin whines from her place on the bed. “This is _not_ necessary.”

“Here, put this one on,” Steve throws a yellow plaid skirt at her. It has pretty pleats and it flares out a little and the hem is raw, which is a little edgy, Steve thinks. 

“This will work well,” he says almost to himself, threading a black belt through the loops of the skirt once Robin changes. He throws a pair of black thigh-highs at her and leaves her to struggle with them as he runs back to his apartment to grab his biggest jean jacket. He helps her thread her arms through the huge sleeves and then folds them up for her to just below her elbows.

“Now just a pair of black heels,” Steve says, looking her over.

“No way,” Robin says reaching for her ratty converse. They argue and settle on her Steve Madden boots: black and leather but still flat enough for Robin to feel comfortable.

“Red lipstick,” Steve shouts at her as he goes out to the landing. “And do something with your hair.”

They have an extra half hour before they actually have to go, but Robin’s out in fifteen. She has makeup on, just some mascara and eyeshadow, a matte red lipstick, a touch of blush that tints a little plum. She’s put mousse through her hair so it’s a little tousled. Steve sighs, content. She looks like an artist on her way to a gallery opening. She looks so much more like herself.

“Pretty as a picture,” Billy says without missing a beat and Steve smiles at him, gratefully.

“So unnecessary,” Robin grumbles under her breath as she passes them, but Steve can see the shadow of a smile in the corners of her mouth.

“What about _your_ outfit?” Billy whispers in Steve’s ear with a coy smile.

“Any of the last four would’ve been fine,” Steve tells him, “it doesn’t matter.”

Billy’s smile is knowing. They step out onto the street.

The gallery space is beautifully lit with all the focus on the art and plenty of shadows for Steve to hide in and watch Robin, ya know, _mingle?!_ Of course, Billy’s presence reduces his observation powers considerably, right along with his sneakiness quotient. Steve’s not exactly upset about it, he’ll admit.

“She’s fine,” Billy tells him, planting his lips on the pulse point behind Steve’s ear. Steve shushes at him, trying to bat him away. Robin is just coming up to one of her favourite pieces. A woman about their age is looking very close at the eyes and then steps away and comes back closer again. She has dark skin, and huge colourful plastic earrings, and a halo of curly dark hair framing her face.

Steve (and therefore Billy, too) sneaks up closer, watches as Robin says something to her.

“The eyes are so expressive,” the woman says, her tone contemplative, eyes never leaving the painting. Steve feels goosebumps as he watches Robin perk up and lift her skirt a little, staring in awe at her words that – Steve knows – are turning an inky black before her very eyes.

“Oh my god,” Robin says, looking at the woman and then back at her thigh and back at the woman, again. Steve is _literally holding his breath;_ he is gripping Billy’s hand so tight he’s sure he’s crushing it _._ Almost in slow motion, he watches his best friend fly into the woman’s open arms.

“Hi,” his best friend’s soulmate says into Robin’s blonde hair, “hi.”

“It’s happened,” he whispers in awe, smiling. He’s tugging at Billy’s hand like he doesn’t think Billy is seeing it, too. Keeps whispering at him:“it’s happened, it’s happened.”

Robin lets go of the woman for only a minute, turns around, searching. When her eyes finally find Steve, they are shining. She says his name, her voice a little strangled. Steve gives her two thumbs up and gets an armful of his best friend in return, has to finally let Billy’s abused hand go to catch her.

“Come,” Robin says when she lets him go, “come meet her.”

The woman’s name is Allie, short for Alexandra. They hug like they’re family.

“It’s so good to meet you,” Steve says, and Allie says: “you too.”

“We’ll give you two a moment,” Billy says, drugging Steve away because Steve can’t seem to be able to let Robin’s hand go, can’t stop smiling.

They go outside and Steve feels like he’s come up for air.

“Wow,” he says, and Billy says: “yeah,” but he seems a little somber.

“Hey,” Steve says to him, looking into Billy’s ocean eyes, “you ok?”

“Just thinking,” Billy tells him, and Steve waits out the silence because, sometimes, Billy needs a minute for the words to come.

“I wish our meeting went a little more like that,” Billy says eventually, once Steve has lit a cigarette. Steve would be a liar if he said he never thought about it, didn’t think something similar, just now, only for a moment. His and Billy’s meeting went as unlike what they’ve just witnessed as you can really get. And it’s still hard, some days, to think about all the time they’ve missed. To look at Jonathan and Nancy and not think, _we could’ve been like that._ To think how they could’ve already known one another , instead of just getting started. It used to be harder to make those thoughts stop. But it’s not like that, now.

So, Steve turns to face him and says: “stop that.”

“What?” Billy says, trying for innocent but ending up just a little shy of defeated.

“We found our way,” Steve reminds him.

“But at what cost?” Billy says, plucking Steve’s cigarette out of his fingers. He won’t meet Steve’s eyes. Steve is watching him take a drag.

For all of Steve’s struggles, he’s learned that Billy still has a lot of his own, guilt being probably the biggest one. But Steve has made his peace with what happened, mostly because this past month has been the best month of his life, mostly because – in some fucked up, weird way – it somehow seems to have made up for everything. Or, at least, it’s starting to.

Time has made it easier for Steve to see what, at first, he couldn’t. When Billy first came into the diner, all those months back, it was hard to see how those years apart have shaped them both into the men they needed to be for each other. How the time apart primed them better for a lifetime together. But he sees it now, and on the days he forgets, he’s had something to remind himself of that, courtesy of Nancy. Maybe some day, he’ll tell Billy what he thinks about all this. Will tell him how maybe they needed that ‘lost’ time to now cherish this time more. Will tell him that maybe they had to struggle for their love so that it will mean more now. Will tell him that the Steve of six years ago was childish and reckless and selfish, that maybe Billy of six years ago wasn’t ready to be open and tender and real, like Steve always needed him to be.

But he can’t say any of it yet. Can’t force open his chest cavity and dig these truths out of his heart until they’re out here, cooling in the night air, covered in the viscera of his unresolved emotions. He has to keep them hidden, warm and living inside of him until they can grow enough so that they stretch out their vines, crawling up his trachea and out of his mouth all on their own. But, until he’s ready, he can give Billy something. Something that might help him see what Steve now sees. 

“I have something for you,” Steve says, suddenly, throwing his cigarette to the ground, even though it’s only half-smoked. He digs in his pockets for the folded square of paper he’s been carrying around for almost a month. Billy stares at it with reluctance.

“It’s a letter you wrote to Nancy, after you went to see your mom,” Steve says, shaking it at Billy like he might shake a piece of food at a stray animal he’s trying to entice into taking it. “She let me read it, when we left for that camping trip.”

“Okay,” Billy says like he means, _go on._

“I didn’t really want to keep it,” Steve confesses, “but she said she’ll keep it for me. And then, when we got together, she gave it back. I’ve been meaning to give it to you.”

“I don’t really remember what I wrote,” Billy says, carefully. He still doesn’t take it.

“It helped me understand you, I think,” Steve says, “and then, it helped me remind myself of why our meeting couldn’t have gone different, why our story had to unfold just the way it did.”

It works, a little. Billy finally takes the letter. He unfolds it, carefully, and then steps closer to the streetlight so he can make out the words.

“Is this what changed your mind?” Billy says after a long time, eyes not leaving the page in front of him.

“No,” Steve says easily, “you did. When I came back, and you were still there.”

Billy pulls him forward, kisses him hard under the yellow light of the streetlamps, hand holding him tight at the back of Steve’s neck, like he never wants to let go. They stay there, sharing breath in the cold November air.

“Maybe,” Steve tells him, “one day, we’ll frame it.”

“That would be really embarrassing,” Billy chuckles into Steve’s lips.

“Well then we must,” Steve smirks back at him.

They don’t go back in until Nancy and Jonathan find them on the sidewalk, half an hour later, and herd them back in.

At the end of the night, Steve gathers Robin and Allie, Jonathan and Nancy, pulls Dustin and Max away from some weird dude talking to them about carnivorous plants and the whole lot of them all stumble a couple blocks up to the diner. Steve opens it up for them, turns on the lights and puts on the kettle for tea, begrudgingly starts a pot of coffee. He brings out a blueberry pie he made for the occasion just as Robin runs up to her apartment and comes back with a bottle of champagne and a bottle of gin that they mix into the lemonade.

Steve looks around at his friends, his _family,_ glances at Billy who’s jostling Max and laughing, and his heart feels _so full._

His moment of reverence doesn’t really last in the chaos. Robin demands a cheeseburger, and – given the occasion – he can’t say no, heats up the grill and starts taking orders for a midnight meal. And when they all sit around the counter, eating their food, drinks in hand, Robin taps her fingers on the counter, once, twice, looks up at Steve with mischief in her eyes and says: “do you have a quarter?”

Steve take a quarter out of his pocket, shines it ostentatiously on his button-up and drops it into the Seeburg, presses the button next to **Pictures of You – The Cure** , and when the song starts playing, the room collectively groans.

Robin laughs and fills Allie in on the details of how she’s been playing this song every morning and every other afternoon for the past year, tells her how Steve is so soft that he just let her have it. Allie looks up at him like she might be understanding something more about this gag of Robin’s than Robin means to reveal. Steve already knows he’s going to like her.

Billy folds his arms around Steve’s middle, rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder and says: “well, he’s not alone anymore, Buckley. He’s got me in his corner so pick a new song already.”

And Steve expects Robin to say something along the lines of _yeah? Try me, Hargrove._

Instead, she laughs and says: “It’s about goddamn time!” and then, because she’s a little shit, just like Billy, adds: “Hargrove, you got a quarter?”

But she never picks that song again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and commented and left kudos, I’m so glad you’ve joined me on this journey. 
> 
> This has been a pleasure to write. I wanted to end it at this exact moment to show that even though my time writing Steve and Billy’s story has come to an end, it is not over for them. They have a long journey ahead of them, a lot of things that need to be resolved, a lot of things they still have to learn about one another. But all of that is a different story, one that is not for me to tell.
> 
> Again, thank you so much to everyone who stuck it out and read this to the end, you all are seriously awesome!
> 
> Feedback much appreciated!


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